


The Anatomy of a Thrush Affair

by Theriverthewoods



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Drugs, Espionage, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stress, THRUSH, Torture, Undercover, gen but the boys love each other you know how it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 02:31:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17458916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theriverthewoods/pseuds/Theriverthewoods
Summary: The T.H.R.U.S.H. agent grabbed his lapels and pulled him closer, so they were face to face, staring into his eyes to make sure the drugs were taking effect. They were, for now there were many T.H.R.U.S.H. agents, all identical, half blurred and spinning round him in a dizzying, nauseating swirl. The man struggled to focus on the face, something was familiar, something his addled brain couldn't quite place. The brown eyes, the dark slick hair, the sneer. Finally, with a flare of recognition, he realized before him kneeled the deadly, devastating, most infamous traitor to have ever turned their back on U.N.C.L.E.





	1. Guess who I saw today?

**Author's Note:**

> IF I WRITE THIS whole thing, it will probably be pretty long but we'll see if I can find time at 3 in the morning every night to add some more. Hopefully it will be tense and INtense and dramatic and suspenseful and an exciting read but alas one can only hope. I may add more to this first chapter, but I wanted to post this opening section just to force myself to beginnnn. Enjoy

As the world began to fade into darkness, blurring and swimming in front of you, you caught glimpses of the T.H.R.U.S.H. agent before you, a handsome, if subtly scarred face, dark hair, dark eyes, lips drawn tightly together in a derisive sneer. The man grabbed your lapels and pulled you closer, so you were face to face, staring into your eyes to make sure the drugs were taking effect. They were, for now there were many T.H.R.U.S.H. agents, all identical, half blurred and spinning round you in a dizzying, nauseating swirl. You struggled to focus on the face, something was familiar, something your addled brain couldn't quite place. The brown eyes, the dark slick hair, the sneer. Finally, with a flare of recognition, you realized before you kneeled the deadly, devastating, most infamous traitor to have ever turned their back on U.N.C.L.E. You reached your arms up to scratch at the man's eyes, get your fingers around his throat, do anything to satisfy this sudden need for justice, retribution, revenge... but the world was slipping away, and you weren't strong enough, your fingers feebly tracing the other agent's throat.

The T.H.R.U.S.H. agent smirked at your pointless attempt and pulled you up roughly, smiling, leaning in close to your ear to say one final line before passing you off to a second T.H.R.U.S.H. agent waiting by the door. Waiting with tools, and needles, and drugs, and instruments of…. persuasion.

And as your eyes finally closed and your mind slipped into unnatural unconsciousness, you heard Napoleon Solo whisper in your ear.

“Looks like you’re out of a job”.


	2. The Moon was Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time before...  
> Napoleon and Illya continued through the maze of tunnels, following the slightest gust of air, using all of their senses and instincts to take the right road back up to the surface – where presumably the moon was shining up in a pitch-black sky, all the better for their escape. At some point they had taken a turn and lost their pursuers, although they could still hear footsteps and shouts echoing in the depths of the underground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we return to the beginning.... how it all began. I'm quite satisfied with this chapter, but I may have to check it over sometime when its not 1:30 in the morning to look for any small errors.

Some time before...

 

“дерьмо!” Illya Kuryakin cursed. Napoleon spun around at the sound, pausing, even as he and Illya were gunning it frantically through an awkward maze of underground passageways – away from an ever closer and more enraged group of T.H.R.U.S.H. agents.  
“Illya?” Napoleon shouted, lightly stepping backwards in order to see what the matter behind him was. A few yards back, Illya stumbled, falling against one of the rough walls of the tunnel. They were both streaked with sweat and grime and dirt, and Illya’s tangled blond hair fell in his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. Even Napoleon’s usually precise appearance was disheveled, his suit and hair in a state of disarray.  
Something caught Napoleon’s eyes, and they traveled downwards along Illya’s form. Standing out against the dark grey of Illya’s trousers was a sudden spurt of bright red blood.  
Illya clutched at the side of his leg, took a breath, and then continued forward, using the wall for support. His eyes shot up to glare at Napoleon in a fury for stopping.  
“Bullet… ricochet…” he breathed.  
Napoleon sucked in air looking at the wound and slowed his pace so that his partner could keep up – not that Illya was slowed much by a mere graze.

 

The pair continued through the maze of tunnels, following the slightest gust of air, using all of their senses and instincts to take the right road back up to the surface – where presumably the moon was shining up in a pitch-black sky, all the better for their escape. At some point they had taken a turn and lost their pursuers, although they could still hear footsteps and shouts echoing in the depths of the underground. The dodge was lucky, for although Napoleon kept up the fastest pace he could, despite having to bend over double to avoid knocking his head on the low, rocky ceiling, Illya had begun to lag behind. Finally, after coming to another fork in the road, Napoleon turned round to check in with Illya and found that he was not there. Napoleon felt a pang of panic, and then caught Illya’s shadow limping around the corner. When he came into view Napoleon was caught off guard by his appearance.  
His leg wound was no mere “graze” from a stay bullet but a direct hit through Illya’s thigh, luckily above his kneecap. Illya took a moment to lean himself against the wall, ignoring Napoleon’s overt shock and concern.  
“Ah, I remember this part… the right, Napoleon, we should go to the right.” Illya breathed, before picking himself up to go again.  
“Illya, your leg! It looks like you’ve hit a damn artery!” Napoleon angrily exclaimed, blocking Illya’s path.  
“There’s nothing to be done about it Napoleon, I got it when coming to rescue you and my makeshift bandages couldn’t hold up through all of this. It’ll be fine.”  
“Illya it’s not---”  
“There’s nothing to be done Napoleon! You cannot carry me in these tunnels, and we have no time to spare.”  
Napoleon looked with unease from Illya’s ashen face to his throbbing wound. Not only was he losing a dangerous amount of blood, but the trail of it would lead T.H.R.U.S.H. right to them.  
“To. The. _Right.”_ Illya growled.  
They had no choice.

 

They were close, so close to the surface. The tunnel grew narrower and began to ascend, an exhausting, steep, uneven climb up. Napoleon was aching after a few days of being held captive and played with by T.H.R.U.S.H. and was almost at his wits end, and Illya was struggling a few feet back, pulling himself up by his fingernails, dragging his bloody leg behind him.  
Finally, in a gasping effort, they reached the top of the tunnel, which let out at a hole in the side of a mountain wall, about two yards from the ground. Both men were panting with the exertion, both wounded and tired and fed up. Outside the night was pitch black, and they had only to cross one expanse of flatlands to make their escape.  
They could hear the sound of commands being shouted and rocks tumbling underfoot behind them.  
Illya was deathly pale, but lucid and logical and urgently gripped napoleon by the lapels.  
“Napoleon, I hid the truck in the shrubbery on the edge of the forest. With luck T.H.R.U.S.H. has not discovered it. If you drive due East you should reach a small secluded dirt road, it will lead you back to the highway. There is signal there, you can report back in to Waverly.”  
Napoleon’s eyes flashed with immediate understanding  
“Illya, no, you can’t stay here, you need medical attention, you won’t make it in--”  
“I won’t make it across the field, Napoleon.” Illya said flatly.  
“Then I’ll drive over and pick you up!”  
“No you will not! T.H.R.U.S.H. will be here any second, I can try to hold them off. If you come back for me, you will kill both of us and the mission.”  
“I don’t give a damn about the mission!” Napoleon said  
“You don’t mean that. You know I’m right, Napoleon.” Illya said calmly.  
They could hear T.H.R.U.S.H. coming up the tunnel behind them.  
“Do you have the microfilm? The files?” Illya asked.  
“Yes.”  
“And I’ve got 5 bullets. We’re even.” He smiled.  
“We’re not even, you rescued me this time, I owe you a life.”  
“Then make it yours, my friend.” Illya clasped him on the shoulder.  
Napoleon furrowed his brow and took a last look at his bloody, bludgeoned friend sitting across from him, the moonlight illuminating half of his pale face. Then he turned to face the night, and shoved off the edge of the opening, dropping silently onto the balls of his feet.

 

Illya looked down over the edge, and watched Napoleon look both ways, _like crossing a street…_ Illya thought fondly, before sprinting towards the woods.  
Illya got out his U.N.C.L.E. issued Special and held it at the ready. Despite his light-headedness from blood-loss, he had the upper-ground, and was relatively confident of holding his own against a group of probably equally tired T.H.R.U.S.H.ies on their hands and knees, climbing up a tunnel.  
He had a moment to wait for them, and glanced back out into the darkness, to see Napoleon’s progress. What he saw made him jolt upright.  
There were T.H.R.U.S.H. everywhere. What Napoleon had stolen was important enough that when word had gotten out of Illya’s infiltration and subsequent rescue of Napoleon, T.H.R.U.S.H. had stealthily covered their exits. Illya could see them moving like ants amongst the trees and rocks, no doubt in his mind that they had found the truck.  
He reached for his communicator pen and jammed it open, hoping Napoleon, who was still unawares, dashing for the trees, would be able to pick up the signal.  
“Napoleon! They know! Danger! You must find another way - they must know about the Truck! Napoleon, do you hear me?? T.H.R.U.S.H. is everywhere!” He shouted into the pen, staring desperately at Napoleon, willing him to get his message.

 

lllya watched Napoleon from a distance as he reached where Illya had hidden the truck. He saw him pull the camouflage sheet off of it in one swift movement, only to be met with gunfire. Illya’s heart sank into his stomach as he watched Napoleon drop.  
He could hear T.H.R.U.S.H. behind him getting almost close enough to touch and his fingers tightened around his Special, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding by the trees.  
Napoleon was struggling back up, he took deft shots at the trees, Illya thought he saw some T.H.R.U.S.H. fall. He watched with bated breath as Napoleon swung himself over the side of the truck and started the ignition. A cloud of dirt and dust and leaves kicked up as he started to pull away. With relief Illya was about to turn his attentions to the enemies behind him, when he saw the Truck swerve away from the direction of the road.  
The truck had turned towards him.  
Napoleon was coming back for him.

 

“Глупый американец!” Illya swore. The truck was speeding towards him, too fast for any other hidden T.H.R.U.S.H. to take effective shots at. These grunts were not sharpshooters.  
Illya forced himself up into a crouch, woozy with blood loss from his leg, he felt a wave of dizziness come over him as a jolt of pain shot up into his stomach. With shaking hands, he took easy shots at the T.H.R.U.S.H. coming up the tunnel behind him, he saw two fall and knock others behind them down, resulting in a series of colorful swears and shouts.  
He turned his attention back to the truck. It was almost at the entrance to the tunnel, Napoleon hit the break hard and swung the truck round so it was parallel to the tunnel opening, only a few yards away.

 

“Come on Illya! We’re gonna be late!” Napoleon shouted up at him, a nervous smile teasing the corners of his mouth.  
“Я ненавижу тебя, ты идиот!” Illya shouted back at him in a fury. _Napoleon you will be the death of me!_ He thought, before focusing the last of his mental facilities on how to get from the opening of the wall to the truck.  
Then he saw it.  
T.H.R.U.S.H. _had_ gotten to the truck before them.  
On the back of the car was an explosive.

 

Instinct and training overcame thought as Illya fell out of the opening of the wall. Gunfire followed after him from the T.H.R.U.S.H. agents finally clambouring up to the opening behind him. He felt something blaze past his left arm, leaving a stinging burning sensation in its wake.  
As he dropped, he fell onto his good leg, but it did not stop another blinding pain from his thigh. He struggled to stand, his vision almost white with the pain and nausea of blood loss. Napoleon was almost out of his seat with concern, all pretense of easy one-liners gone.

 

Illya somehow frantically half ran, half hopped his way to the Truck. Napoleon was confused when he did not go to the passenger side, but to the back.  
“Napoleon, sabotage! There’s a bomb! Drive!” Illya shouted over the rumbling of the engine. He ripped the explosive off the Truck and waved for Napoleon to go.  
“DRIVE!”

 

With a sickening feeling, Napoleon stepped on the gas, leaving his partner in a cloud of dust, intending to come back around once Illya had thrown the explosive away, damn the risk. But in his rear-view mirror he did not see Illya throw the explosive away.  
It exploded in his hand.  
And took Illya with it.


	3. Where does that Leave Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Napoleon sat at his desk, almost buried in unfinished paperwork, he couldn’t help-- Illya used to do all of the paperwork, he reminded himself, and then sat, briefly stunned, staring straight ahead, almost paralyzed, as if his brain was unable to draw conclusions based on what he thought, and what was now true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these chapters are building the necessary ground-works for where I would like to take this story, I hope you enjoy. I've been enjoying writing it. :)

As Napoleon sat at his desk, almost buried in unfinished paperwork, he couldn’t help-- _Illya used to do all of the paperwork,_ he reminded himself, and then sat, briefly stunned, staring straight ahead, almost paralyzed, as if his brain was unable to draw conclusions based on what he thought, and what was now true.  
  
As Napoleon sat at his desk, almost buried in unfinished paperwork, he couldn’t help but relive the last moments of their final mission. He’d been shot in the side - just under the ribs, by some hidden T.H.R.U.S.H. agents, when retrieving the car - but his adrenaline had kept him going . . .  
_. . . get back on your feet, shoot the bastards and don’t waste bullets . . .  
_Illya only has five bullets _  
. . . get into the truck, ignore the pain as you’ve always done, as you have to do, and go and get your stubborn partner from a hole in the side of a cliff . . .  
  
_Napoleon shoved the gas down and swung the car around, the tires spinning out as they struggled for sudden purchase amongst the dust and rocks on the edge of the woodland. He ignored the hail of bullets over his head as he flew across the flatlands, ignored the weight of the information he carried in the lining of his jacket, and the jeopardy he put the world into when he chose the life of his partner over the successful completion of their mission.  
  
At the foot of the cliff he slammed on the breaks, skillfully bringing the car around, passenger side to Illya. He looked up and saw his pinched, Russian face, almost as white as the moonlight which illuminated it, and felt the same delighted smile creeping up around his eyes when he caught the most furious look, accompanied by a stream of Russian, disparaging his good name and decisively severing their long-lasting partnership.  
  
But any cavalier pleasure vanished when Napoleon saw Illya’s expression shift, and the small man tumble carelessly to the ground.  His anxiety increased as Illya stumbled, half-running on his one good leg, his left arm limp in shock to the back of the truck – not where he had expected Illya to go.  
And then-- “Napoleon, sabotage! There’s a bomb! Drive!”  
“DRIVE!”  
And Napoleon had, cursing under his breath, watching in the rear-view mirror, planning his circle back, counting T.H.R.U.S.H.ies and counting bullets and always watching Illya in the rear-view mirror, watching Illya in the rear-view mirror, watching Illya in the rear-view--  
  
As Napoleon sat at his desk, almost buried in unfinished paperwork, he couldn’t help-- _Illya do you think you might be able to help me out with those few papers about the mission from last week? I’ve got something on tonight and, well, you know . . ._  and then sat, briefly stunned, waiting for a response. What was it Illya had said? He’d grumbled and flicked his eyes at Napoleon with distaste and Napoleon had responded in mock offense and then he’d quit for the day knowing those few pesky papers would be finished and in a neater hand than his own in the morning. That was why he was now stuck with all these mountains of forms and files.  
  
_There’d been nothing there.  
Absolutely nothing.  
  
_Of course, Napoleon had circled back. He’d circled back in an ill-advised attempt to kill any and all people he saw, mainly, now, in Napoleon’s rage blinded state, via wheels-of-truck. But there were not many to get. The explosion had not only seemingly obliterated his partner but had caused a landslide of the cliff-face, suffocating many of the remaining T.H.R.U.S.H. agents under tons of rubble. It was, evidently, a more powerful bomb than those typically used to try and cook Napoleon alive in cars.  
Napoleon efficiently “secured” the area, injuries and weariness forgotten in his cold rage and ever dawning horror. Finally, he was left with an out-of-service communicator, a spattered truck, and a pile of rubble, which proved, even for his determined hands, too much to dig through alone. He felt blood trickling down his side and put his hand there, half-heartedly meaning to check the damage. Still in disbelief, still barely processing the shock of it all as he stood by the side of the highway, putting in his detached, emotionless report to a stunned secretary at U.N.C.L.E.  
Yes, I have the information.  
Yes, Illya is dead.  
Yes, the mission was a success.  
_decisively severing their long-lasting partnership._  
  
As napoleon sat at his desk, he lifted a paper off the top of one of the piles. Suddenly desiring busywork to do, anything to keep his mind from endlessly replaying these scenes in his head, sickeningly watching himself as if from third person, feeling like a double agent observing himself from some hidden location, watching the great Napoleon Solo stand listlessly by the side of the road, putting in another boring report. He decided suddenly that he would do all this paperwork, he would force himself to do it, to distract himself. He was a logical person, but thoughts wrestled with each other in his head.  
_Illya rescued you and you killed him._ No _. If you hadn’t selfishly gone back to pick him up, he wouldn’t have been caught in the explosion._ No _. If you’d just driven away you would have been killed in the explosion and Illya would have bled to death or been shot and the mission would have been lost and the world would have ended._ No _. The world_ had _ended._ Yes. No _. It hadn’t._ Yes. _You owe Illya Kuryakin two lives now._ Yes. _Lives that you cannot pay back._ No. _What do you do now?_  
  



	4. All or Nothing at All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a month since Illya had been gone, and things had not been easy for Napoleon. Not that he had not been working – he practically insisted to be sent out on missions, taking no time off. All this despite Mr. Waverly’s well-concealed concern, and the obvious sympathy from friends and fellow agents, each aware of the debt one owed to their partner, and the often-deep loyalty and love that resulted.  
> Not that Napoleon was any less-efficient at his job. No, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> building and building. Waverly was fun to write. All these characters are very fun to work out, despite seeming simple on the surface. I hope it's effective :)

It had been a month since Illya had been killed, and things had not been easy for Napoleon. Not that he had not been working – he practically insisted to be sent out on missions, taking no time off. All this despite Mr. Waverly’s well-concealed concern, and the obvious sympathy from friends and fellow agents, each aware of the debt one owed to their partner, and the often-deep loyalty and love that resulted.  
Not that Napoleon was any less-efficient at his job. No, indeed he seemed to be more effective, deadlier, more successful than ever on each mission, whether lone, or with an intimidated, temporary partner. But Napoleon found himself in Medical more often than before, when he agreed to go. He took bigger risks, for greater rewards, but often without concern for his personal well being. He barely seemed to flinch when injured, be it via bullet, knife, baseball bat, or implements of torture. He never required rescuing, and never left anyone for T.H.R.U.S.H. to rescue on their side. Napoleon carried with him a well concealed fury, which expressed itself as cold detachment and a new, hard, aloofness which fellow U.N.C.L.E. agents had never experienced before.  
Napoleon took as many missions as he could to keep himself busy, but he did not enjoy the thrill of the chase or get any satisfaction from success. He needed the distraction, but hated the exercise, forcing each mission to be over as quickly as possible. Hating the never-ending routine and exhaustion of it yet conversely going after the “Baddies” with a viciousness he was barely aware of. He only knew he couldn’t take time off. Couldn’t sit around his apartment with nothing to do, constantly reminded of his loss with every drink not shared with his friend. With his partner. Napoleon carried with him a well concealed fury, which hid a well concealed anguish.  
He felt that he’d lost himself. Illya and him were perfect together, each exactly balancing the other‘s skills and talents, a perfect match of temperament and style and action. They were like two sides of the same coin, and Napoleon found himself now adopting some of Illya’s mannerisms, his cold aloofness, his focus on the task at hand instead of his own wellbeing, even his enjoyment of vodka. All in trying to fill the half of Napoleon’s life that had been so suddenly torn out.  
  
It was after one such brief, brutal, successful mission that Napoleon was washing his face in the sink when he heard his communicator beep from his suit pocket. He dried his hands, and slid the silver pen out, clicking open the top and fitting it neatly on the other end.  
“Solo here.”  
“Ah, Mr. Solo.” He heard the genial voice of Mr. Waverly. “There is something here which requires your… attention. A New plot has come to light, and I think you would like to hear the details before any decisions are finalized.”  
“Yes, sir. What is this about?”  
“Oh, never mind Mr. Solo, I will expect you in my office in 20 minutes.”  
The communicator clicked off. Napoleon put the silver pen back together and slid it back into his pocket, exiting into the hallway. He didn’t wait for 20 minutes, he went up in 5.  
  
\-----  
  
  
“Mr. Solo, so good to see you uninjured, for once, after yesterday’s mission.” Wavery began, eyebrow raised, in his offhand, arrogant manner which in the past amused Napoleon _and Illya_ but which now just set his jaw a little tighter.  
“Yes, sir.” Napoleon said, standing by the door.  
“Please, take a seat” Mr. Waverly gestured to the chair by the round, spinning table in front of which Napoleon _and Illya_ had sat so many times before. Napoleon pulled it back and sat down, crossing his legs in his usual, casual way. Waiting for whatever new tragedy had befallen some poor helpless people, by whatever new microdot or serum or machine or weapon that he would have to go and collect.  
Instead, Napoleon almost knocked his chair over in shock.  
“I believe you know this man” Mr. Waverly, said, clicking on the large screen in front of them. Suddenly, filling Napoleon’s vision, for the first time in many days, was Illya’s face. Just a black and white photo of Illya, staring with lowered eyelids into the camera, his long bangs shielding his brow. Wearing his usual black turtleneck and suit jacket.  Napoleon stared at the image, flabbergasted, and then his eyes fell on Mr. Waverly, almost unable to understand the words when Mr. Waverly said,  
“Mr. Kuryakin is alive”.  
Napoleon stared in obvious shock at Mr. Waverly’s impassive face, back to Illya’s photo, then back again. His mind was going in a thousand different directions at once.  
“Sir—”  
“It seems he was rescued by some…person after the blast and was not killed outright in the explosion, simply thrown quite a distance away – which would account for your report of him ‘disappearing’” Mr. Waverly said, with a pointed glance at Napoleon. What was he trying to do? Accuse Napoleon of being careless, of being lazy? Of not taking the time to check, to try as best he possibly could to sort through the rubble from the cliffside, ignoring his cut fingers and wounds and dawning terror that he was really going to be alone? Really completely alone?  
“some T.H.R.U.S.H. person” Mr. Waverly continued, and Napoleon had to focus to keep up with his words.  
“A few of the tunnels in the cliff had not yet caved in, and Mr. Kuryakin was dragged along by a remaining T.H.R.U.S.H. official who decided to hold onto at least one U.N.C.L.E. agent. For safekeeping”  
Napoleon nodded.  
“It’s taken T.H.R.U.S.H. this long to nurse Mr. Kuryakin back to reasonable health. We’ve learned he lost two fingers and part of his left ear in the blast and was quite battered overall - as the bomb did go off in his hand, but now is otherwise in relatively fit condition.”  
Napoleon’s heart - so recently started beating again, dropped into his stomach, thinking about Illya, about Illya’s hands, about his future. . . But one question bubbled up through the haze in his head.  
“Sir, how do you _know_ all this? Where is—”  
“He is being offered up in trade.” Mr. Waverly cut Napoleon short. With another click of Mr. Waverly’s finger on the button the picture of Illya snapped off. Napoleon suddenly felt the loss, as if Illya had been taken away from him again.  
“In trade…” Napoleon mused.  
“No doubt after ‘nursing back to health’ T.H.R.U.S.H. tortured him for every ounce of information they could get.”  
Napoleon felt his chest tighten.  
“And we’ll have no way of knowing what Mr. Kuryakin did or did not tell them.” Waverly reached into his pocket for his pipe and began casually stuffing it with tobacco. As if this were any other normal briefing.    
“Sir you _know_ Illya would never say _anything_ to jeapor—”  
“I’m aware of your _fondness_ for Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo, but he’s been gone for a month, much of it, I wouldn’t doubt, as a delirious and quiet pliable patient. For all we know his fingers were removed to get him to talk. As you know, an U.N.C.L.E. agent is not much use without their fingers.” Waverly continued to work on his pipe, not glancing at Napoleon's increasingly incredulous expression.  
Napoleon could barely speak, paralyzed between intense feelings of relief, worry, and mounting anger at Mr. Waverly’s nonchalant way of speaking about the loyalty, fortitude, and ultimate future of one of the top U.N.C.L.E. agents in history, and of Napoleon’s _partner_. Whom he was _fond_ of, as Mr. Waverly had so dryly put it. Napoleon tried to focus on what would need to be done.  
“Ahem, what do they want… in return?” He asked.  
“They want the files you stole from them in that successful--” _Successful!?_ Napoleon mind was almost bubbling over with outrage “--mission. And the microfilm as well. It would seem that the project was very important to them, and they are willing to pass us back one of our ‘best and brightest’, as it were, in order to get it back.” Here, finally, Waverly looked up at Napoleon.  
“Well, _sir_ , what is the plan, I’m ready for any—"  
“We are not making the trade.”  
Wavery stared directly into Napoleon’s eyes. Calm, collected, and satisfied that the outcome he had predicted had come to fruition.  
“sir.”  
“We’re letting him go.” Waverly said. Final.  
“I—”  
“We cannot let that weapon fall into T.H.R.U.S.H.’s hands. Come on now Mr. Solo, you’re no greenhorn here, you know what’s what.” Somewhere along the way Waverly’s accent had turned almost comically snobbish.  
“What…”  
“I fail to see what is so hard to grasp Mr. Solo” Waverly said, his gaze never faltering, even as Napoleon dropped his eyes.  
“What was the reason you called me in, sir.” Napoleon, said, his eyes still downcast, unable to look at Mr. Waverly’s impassive face any longer.  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning.”  
“What was your purpose in calling me in - ‘A new plot has come to light, and I think you would like to hear the details before any decisions are finalized’? The decision had already been finalized before I walked through that door.” He raised his eyes.  
“I assumed you would want to know the whereabouts of your partner, Mr. Solo.”  
“Mr. Waverly, they won’t keep Illya long once you reject the trade – they’ll kill him.” Napoleon said, desperation quietly welling up inside. _again._  
“Yes. I agree. I would have thought you’d be familiar with the idea by this point, Mr. Solo.” Mr. Waverly squinted at Napoleon, furrowing his brow in curiosity.  
_Familiar with the idea Mr. Solo?  
_Napoleon abruptly stood up, gazing down at Mr. Waverly’s aura of ruffled professionalism, almost shaking with anger at the unfairness of it. The unfairness and the hurt of it all, the ache that Napoleon could feel in his chest at this sinister, circular, pointless conversation.  
“Sir. I am familiar with the idea, I’m too familiar with the idea. I’ve just started getting the feeling in my bones that I’m a lone agent again, without family, without real friends, without any kind of _life_ outside of U.N.C.L.E. And now you call me in to tell me my partner, my _friend_ is _alive_ with just enough time to tell me, in the same breath, that we are personally going to kill him again! I can’t understand your reasoning Mr. Waverly. You’ve insulted me, degraded me, and mocked my loyalty to U.N.C.L.E. Made light of feelings that as a professional “man of action” I don’t show and never can. _I must ask_ you to let me _attempt_ to rescue Illya.”  
“No.” Was the flat response.  
“Mr. Waverly—”  
“In fact, Mr. Solo, I find this outburst of yours, despite what you have claimed, extremely unprofessional. In recent weeks your performance has been effective, yes, but sloppy. Injured every mission? Little to no enemy agents caught and questioned?” Waverly ‘tsk tsk’ed, shaking his head “That’s not how an U.N.C.L.E. agent does it. No. You cannot _attempt_ to rescue Mr. Kuryakin.”  
“Well then Mr. Waverly, I quit.” Napoleon said suddenly.  
  
He had said it without thinking, but then, with reflection, what else was there for Napoleon? He didn’t know if his life would ever return to how it had been before. The smile that had almost crept onto his face at seeing Illya crouched in an alcove, shouting profanity down at him as he waited, wounded, to begin the car chase which would see them home again, exhausted but alive, was the last one he had felt. If Waverly was going to abandon Illya, Napoleon had to try to save him. And if he couldn’t do that as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, then he would do it as himself.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Waverly said, finally showing some life, leaning forward in his chair towards Napoleon.  
“I quit, sir.” Napoleon said again. The words ringing true in his ears.  
Mr. Waverly appraised him slowly, staring into his face, as if, despite his cavalier way of discussing Napoleon’s thoughts, he really could see through him and read all of the emotions that threatened to come over the top of Napoleon’s carefully constructed, but recently cracking façade.  
  
“Very well. Hand in your badge, your gun, and any other tools and devices which I’m sure are hidden cleverly about your suit.” Mr. Waverly said with a wave of his hand.  
  
“You may keep the cyanide tablet.”  
  
_Was that a joke?_ Napoleon thought.  
  
  
“You may need it.”


	5. Don't Get Around Much Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya’s eyes shut reflexively as the world suddenly turned white. He felt a distant explosion of pressure in his hand, far away to the left, it felt like his hand was blowing to pieces, but there was no pain, there was no time. His head was filled with a crashing sound and then everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see the word "Satrap" written in almost every U.N.C.L.E. fic... I'd never heard it before and am not exactly sure what it means. 
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic, it totally makes my day if people let me know!!!! :O   
> Thank you very much

Illya’s eyes shut reflexively as the world suddenly turned white. He felt a distant explosion of pressure in his hand, far away to the left, it felt like his hand was blowing to pieces, but there was no pain, there was no time. His head was filled with a crashing sound and then everything went black.  


  
\----

  
  
He could hear the sound of rocks, tumbling from somewhere far above

  
  
\----

  
  
Illya’s eyes half opened and he could see nothing, the odd flicker of light, dust fell into his eyes. The world was slowly and jaggedly moving by him. There was some kind of sound--

  
  
\----

  
  
All Illya could feel was pain. His eyes were closed, but he could feel every part of him burning. He was floating in a black expanse and was unable to move for the sensation that he was on fire. His head, his leg, his body. His hand was a blinding white and felt warped, like white-hot metal that had been hammered into a different shape. 

  
  
\----  


  
Someone was talking to him, talking and talking, but he couldn’t make out the words. It was just a soft murmur in the distance. He tried to feel his limbs and body but had trouble making out the sensations. Then everything faded away…

  
  
\----  


  
Illya was in a clothing shop. He was trying to find something, but the world was muted. It was like a silent film. Illya tried to speak but nothing came out, his throat felt tight and he looked down in confusion. Or maybe he had spoken aloud, for people were turning to look at him. But they were talking to each other, and Illya could hear nothing. A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he realized he was at the register, buying a hat. He looked up at the cashier, who was giving him a patronizing, sympathetic look. He said something, but Illya just stared at his mouth, trying to read his lips.   
“y…o..u…r…  ..e…a…r….” the man had said, and as Illya looked up, Napoleon pointed helpfully at his own ear. Illya reached up for his but then realized there was nothing there. Anger started to fizzle in his head, he wanted to say something, but didn’t know how to get it across. Then, he realized, he’d switch to sign language, the kind he’d taught Napoleon so they could speak without being overheard. He raised his hands, but then stopped, they weren’t in the right shapes. He tried to make them work but he couldn’t form the right signs and letters. In confusion he stared at them. Napoleon leaned forward from behind the cashier and his lips said jovially “H…o…w..’d…..y…o…u….m..a….n…a…g…e….t….o….p…i….c..k… ..u….p….t…h…e….h…a..t.?”  


  
\----  


  
Words were becoming clearer to Illya, he could make them out, even though they had to be whispered directly into his ear. He felt breath against his cheek…  
_Mr. Kuryakin, how are you feeling today?_  
…tell us about U.N.C.L.E…  
…tell us about U.N.C.L.E…  
…tell us about…  


  
\------------------------  


  
  
Illya didn’t know exactly how long he’d been here. It could have been days or weeks, or, for all he knew, months.   
<or it could have been hours> he said under his breath in Russian.   
_or years  
that doesn’t make any sense. _   
His memory was of little use. Dazed and confused when he was brought in, he only had the vaguest impressions and images. Pain, tunnels, rocks, Napoleon trying to sell him a hat, fire. He had his suspicions some particularly strange images were from dreams.   
  
  
What he knew from some of his more lucid moments was that he’d been in hospital, presumedly T.H.R.U.S.H. hospital. The bomb must have exploded before he could throw it, and, somehow, he had survived the blast. He recalled little after the moment he had told Napoleon to “DRIVE”.   
Illya had been stripped of all useful tools and was in a plain white shirt and pants - supplied by T.H.R.U.S.H., as any garments he had must have been a shamble by the time he was brought in. He was in the usual dark stone room, empty of anything except for a hard cot which unfolded from the wall.  No windows or connections to the outside world.  
Illya hated not knowing what day it was, and with barely any windows within this…facility, he had to accept not even knowing the time. It was plausible that his sleep schedule, which had always been unconventional, had been completely rearranged. But more than that, he hated the memory loss. It was common enough, within his line of work, to be drugged or knocked unconscious or travelled somewhere with a black bag over your head and to lose some hours or time. But this was different. He’d not lost this much before. He’d never been held captive this long before, if indeed, as he suspected, it had been a long time. He had only vague memories of hospital beds and beeping machines, tubes and wires and surgeries, no doubt of the life-saving variety - which he was on one hand begrudgingly happy to have received, since he was not dead yet – but on the other hand... Things could have been done to him and he had no way of knowing, experiments, tracking devices, handicaps... He could have been interrogated, drugged, spoken to, for all he knew he had given something up. He wracked his brains trying to come up with any sign that he’d said something, even in his sleep. That seemed unlikely, as any dreams he’d had, had been surreal at best, often featuring Napoleon, or his own hands.   
_My hands_ … Illya thought.   
Well, his left hand to be precise.   
This is what caused Illya the most anxiety. He had lost one and a half fingers on his left hand. He guessed from the explosion. He’d also lost a chunk of his left ear, but that concerned him less than it once did – there was a time earlier in his captivity, which Illya shuddered to think of, when he’d not been able to hear, but luckily that had come back to him over the weeks.   
But his _hand._ His pinky and half of his ring finger on his left hand had been blown clean off. He spent much of his days feeling the stubs and sucking air in through his teeth, imagining all that this could, and would change. He tried to be logical and count his blessings - he was not blown completely apart by the blast was one thing, the two fingers were the least important, and were on his less dominant hand. But he thought of the finicky, delicate maneuvers he often had to make as an agent, the locks that he specialized in picking, even the instruments he played.   
He only smiled inwardly when he thought of how the tables would be turned on Napoleon when it came to writing up the reports…  
_Napoleon_  
He didn’t think about Napoleon much. There was no point, and he couldn’t dwell on possibilities.   
During various interrogations and sessions with some of T.H.R.U.S.H.’s most talented torturers they had tried to get Illya to break by telling him, quite convincingly, that Napoleon had been killed in the skirmish. They were not necessarily consistent in their tellings – Napoleon had died in various ways, landslide, gunshot, torture, explosion, car crash, the list went on. Sometimes he had died in a heroic but futile manner – other times he offered U.N.C.L.E. in exchange for his life. Illya could not believe anything told to him, but that did not help his imagination. He knew that it was quite plausible that Napoleon had been killed. This thought left an empty feeling in his stomach, which he tried to adapt to, and therefore overcome. He did not hold out for rescue, it had been too long for that, something had happened to prevent it, he knew.    
  
  
Illya spent hours pacing his cell, impossibly trying to think of plans of escape, with no means and no openings and no conceivable chances of success. He was glad enough to be awake and alive and psychologically sound (so far, he hoped). He slept little, to avoid dreams and dangerous thoughts about U.N.C.L.E. or Napoleon or the mission or his hands or his loss of time, to avoid sabotaging himself with uncontrollable feelings. Illya’s best defensive maneuver was to draw himself inwards, and let nothing show, no emotions or hopes or ideas, and to try and convince himself that he had none – to survive.   
  
  
Every so often his cell door was roughly shoved open and he was bundled into a black hood and taken somewhere else. Here it was the usual set ups, strapped to a chair or a table or chained to a damp wall, the endless repetitive questions and threats and promises and stories.  
_All fake storie_ s, Illya told himself, _all false promises  
…all pretty real threats._  
He was disinclined to answer many of their inquiries, which led to more and more creative and effective forms of pain. However, each time Illya was released and stumbled back into his cell, getting his breath back on the hard cot bolted to the wall he was filled with a feeling that they would never really hurt him, at least not _permanently_. For some reason T.H.R.U.S.H. had saved him from the explosion.   
They wanted him alive. 


	6. Hey! Jealous Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon Solo, ex-U.N.C.L.E. Agent, was not officially allowed to have Illya Kuryakin’s file open on his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait but life has been rrrrreally busy lately!! I was going to put more plot into this chapter but I thought it was already getting longish so here you go. :)

Napoleon swirled his drink in its glass as he examined the documents resting on his knee. He sat sunken into his elegant couch in his apartment (which was just a tad roomier than he could really afford, but he made ends meet).  
  
  
He had U.N.C.L.E. Agent Illya Kuryakin’s file open on his lap, and was taking his time, examining the details.   
  
  
Napoleon Solo, ex-U.N.C.L.E. Agent, was not officially allowed to have Illya Kuryakin’s file open on his lap.  
  
  
As Napoleon had left Waverly’s office that morning, his mind in a daze, half full of a confusing anger and light-headed dizziness, he had taken two steps, the door had slid, with a sense of finality, closed behind him, and then he had stopped. The assuredness which had given him his confidence and sudden rush of strength to say “I quit” all but evaporated as the door clicked home behind him, and he suddenly thought _I may never see behind that door again_.   
  
  
He turned his head to look behind him, at the solid grey steel of the door. He tried to picture the room in its exact formation, but he couldn’t concentrate – he’d try again later, he reassured himself.   
He pictured Mr. Waverly, whom he might never see again. In any other time, in any other circumstance, Napoleon would have been flooded with kind memories of the intelligent, stern, logical and fair old man who was like a father-figure to Napoleon, sitting there with his pipe, in his grey tweed suits and Homberg. But now, he was unable to come up with real words of any kind. Thoughts of Mr. Waverly just brought up feelings of resentment and anger, and Napoleon felt all over again the effects of the meeting, and its outcome. He took two more steps forward. Then his thoughts turned to Illya.  
_Damnit I won’t let Illya be “let go” like a piece of information or a science experiment!  
_Another step forward  
_Tortured, injured, gotten God-knows-what done to him by T.H.R.U.S.H. Already with probably no hope of rescue!  
_A few steps further from the closed door.  
_I really thought he was dead, Christ! It changed something in me. I’m not sure what, but it has. I don’t feel the same.  
_Napoleon was walking quietly down the hall, but the intensity of his thoughts was palpable, emanating outwards from beneath his furrowed brow. He stopped as a sudden panic came over him, a sudden sense of his situation.  
_Damn! What do I do now?  
_He looked around helplessly, clenching and unclenching his fists, He’d never really been scared like this before, with no plan and no help and none coming.   
But then he thought of Illya’s fingers.  
The most intense feeling of enmity filled him, and he straightened up, bringing his chin up level.   
In front of him was a young, pretty agent from records, walking distractedly, looking down at a file. Napoleon stepped casually in front of her, causing her to look up abruptly, clearly surprised at his presence in the hallway.   
“Oh! Hello Mr. Solo!” She said. She was a shy agent, and relatively new. Napoleon had flirted harmlessly with her once or twice, mostly just to tease. She wasn’t Napoleon’s usual type.   
“Hello, my dear Lucy” Napoleon said, with 1600s chivalry. “What are you doing out of records?” He inquired.   
Napoleon had already scanned the file from the corner of his eye and knew it was something he wanted.  
“I, um, was taking a file to Mr. Waverly.” She stammered.  
“Oh? Well in that case let me take it off your hands” he said, reaching for the file in a slightly over-the-top manner, as if he was accepting a knighthood from the queen.  
“Mr. Solo, I didn’t know you were going to see him… aren’t you going in the wrong direction?” Lucy inquired.  
“Well, lovely Lucy, I heard the click of your shoes coming down the hall and it sounded so much like the notes of a piano that I had to come see who was playing with such technique.”  
Ah, but you see Mr. Solo, I was wearing soft-soled shoes today. I am a _secret_ agent after all. Aren’t I?”  
“Well you’re certainly a mystery to me” Napoleon said, leaning in closer.   
“And you to me, Mr. Solo” Lucy said, her ears turning pink.  
“But, yes, I _am_ , going to see Mr. Waverly. The thing is – I just found out that my partner, Mr. Kuryakin – you remember him? Is _alive_ , isn’t that something? So, my loss of direction is only a momentary sensation.”  
“Ohh, oh.. Mr. K- Mr. Kurya-  he’s?“  
“Yes. Mr. Kuryakin. He’s alive.”  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t real-“  
“And so you see if you give me the file I can take it into Mr. Wavery and have it in his hands is less time than it takes to say ‘Here’s the file Napoleon’.”  
“Mr. Solo…” Lucy began, but her willpower was fading, and so was her grip on the file. Napoleon slid it from between her fingers and tucked it safely underneath his arm, before turning on his heel and walking brusquely away down the hall. Lucy remained, looking furtively around her bare surroundings before biting her thumbnail and leaving.  
  
  
Of course the file never made it to Mr. Waverly. Instead it was cleverly concealed on Napoleon’s person as he took side door after side door to maneuver his way out of U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Napoleon did, before he left, drop off his U.N.C.L.E. issued Special, his communicator, and the various accoutrement which all U.N.C.L.E. field agents carried about with them, leaving him somewhat undressed, lacking buttons on his suit, cufflinks, a tie pin and shoe-laces. As he finally turned in his badge for the last time, the startled girl at the desk called up Mr. Waverly on her control pad to confirm that the great Napoleon Solo, no. 1 of section 1, first in line for Head of U.N.C.L.E. New York, had really quit.   
  
  
\--  
  
  
Napoleon Solo, unemployed and unpredictable, was not allowed to have U.N.C.L.E. Agent Illya Kuryakin’s file open on his lap.   
  
  
It was not the complete file on Mr. Kuryakin, rather, it was a specific folder detailing the capture, and subsequent offer of trade of Illya’s life. Napoleon had been pouring over it for the whole evening, trying to memorize every detail, every photograph. It not only held information about Illya’s possible whereabouts but listed the name and number of the contact from T.H.R.U.S.H. who had proposed the trade. Finally, Napoleon recognized that some samples of the very secret-documents which he had stolen that fateful night were included as well. He could hardly make heads or tails of these sheets, steeped as they were in scientific formulas and jargon (That was Illya’s department) but he could recognize the diagrams. Napoleon’s head was already full of facts and figures, he was piecing together the events of the last month, supplemented by the subtle details within the file, trying to decipher Illya’s location. Obviously, he knew the exact location where he and Illya had been separated, but he doubted Illya could still be there. No doubt he’d been moved, far away? Close by? Napoleon wracked his brain, searching for a clue. But then, his mind in a flurry, he had another thought.   
_And what if I do figure it out, how on earth do I do this? Go in guns blazing? What guns?  
_He’d given up his standard set of equipment when he’d left U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Of course, he had a spare gun in his apartment, tucked safely away, which was only a natural precaution, but that was hardly enough to take down whatever forces were surrounding Illya. Not only that, but he’d be going it alone, no partner, no contacts, no back-up.   
_Damn!_ That same unexpected pang of fear. Uncertainty. Napoleon tossed the file onto his coffee table and got up. He felt restless, never one for hours of study and inaction. As he paced, his thoughts wandered back to the events of the afternoon. He replayed the conversation with Waverly over in his head. There too, he felt uncertainty. No change had come in his feelings, and he knew he would have said all he did again. He had to at least get a _chance_ to try to save his partner. But he felt that Waverly, as usual, was playing a game with him. Napoleon brooded over these thoughts, walking back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back, his drink forgotten on the counter. Behaving somewhat more like an annoyed Russian, then like a usually charming, devil-may-care ladies-man.  
_Charming…_  
Napoleon felt bad about intimidating Lucy. She was a sweet kid, but he’d had no time. He knew his flirtatious reputation had dropped off significantly during the last month, as he’d generally been in no mood to be romantic – but he’d needed to get his hands on the file at any cost. Despite his current lack of convenient gadgets, he would have traded most of them anyway just for the informa—  
_traded?  
_Napoleon stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder suddenly at the file.   
He walked silently over to the coffee table and picked it up, leafing through it slowly, as if reading a picture book. He saw names of contacts, samples of scientific projects, “We will return to you Special Agent Illya Kuryakin if…”, diagrams, notes, instructions.   
The obvious answer occurred to him.   
_He'd just make the trade himself!  
  
  
_As he thought this all the problems he’d conceived of disappeared. Of course, new obstacles took their place, but they hardly held the same level of risk.   
_Don’t know where Illya is? They’ll bring him to you.  
Can’t defeat an army of T.H.R.U.S.H. alone? They can’t bring an army to a trade. They can’t bring a fortress.   
You can observe from afar and make sure everything is set before moving in. You can confirm Illya, confirm T.H.R.U.S.H. personnel - without even having to show yourself.   
You just need a few tricks up your sleeve and you’re good to go.   
  
_Yes, just a _few_ tricks up your sleeve, Napoleon mused. But now, the spark of inspiration had come to him, and he was hardly able to contain himself as he worked out his plan.  
First: He would have to find a way to contact T.H.R.U.S.H. Not an activity he _usually_ wanted to do.   
Second: He would have to somehow distort the information he provided, convincingly fake it so that T.H.R.U.S.H. would accept it as true, but he wouldn’t _actually_ be jeopardizing the safety of the world (Despite not being an _official_ U.N.C.L.E. agent anymore that was still high on his list).   
Third: He should probably make a bomb.   
He might need a bomb.   
  
  
  
Now Napoleon sat again on his couch. How to contact T.H.R.U.S.H.? That was the most important thing. Let them know he was interested before they had a chance to dispose of Illya. He had the name and number of the agent who had called Waverly, but without any kind of communicator he didn’t know how to get in touch. He didn’t have his own walkie-talkie and didn’t know the T.H.R.U.S.H. frequency anyway. It would take too much time to find an agent and was too risky to let himself be captured. Napoleon thought through all the times he’d used T.H.R.U.S.H. radios, or been sent any kind of message but nothing of any use came up, until… He suddenly remembered a slip of paper he’d been given years ago, something which had been given on the condition that it would be immediately thrown away – but Napoleon, of course, had kept it.   
  
  
Napoleon dove into his records, searching madly for a tiny slip of paper, no bigger than the fortune from a fortune cookie, and hopefully one with his lucky number still printed on it…  
  
  
“Hello?” A suspicious, feminine voice inquired on the end of Napoleon’s telephone line. Napoleon let the silence linger.  
“Who is this? I _will_ hang up.”  
“Hello Angelique.” Napoleon said.   
A pause on the other end.  
“Napoleon?” Angelique said irritably. “May I ask why you are calling me on this number?”  
“It’s the only one I’ve got”   
“Weren’t you supposed to throw it away?”  
“mmhmm” Napoleon murmured.   
“What do you want. This is hardly the time, nor the manner of speaking I prefer.”  
“I need your help.”  
“Bored?”  
“Lonely”  
“The Russian.”  
“Da.”  
“I’m not involved with that venture, as I’m sure you know” Angelique said pointedly.   
“I’m not so sure of anything, Angelique.”   
“So?”  
“I need to speak to an agent of yours, would you put me through?”  
“Why should I?”  
“I have something to offer which I think he’ll be interested in.”  
“A trade Napoleon? Really?”  
“Well I can hardly protect the world from you baddies without my right-hand-Russian.”  
“Oh! On the contrary. You’ve been an absolute _terror_ for T.H.R.U.S.H. these past few weeks. No survivors… that’s hardly your usual style Napoleon.”  
“’I’ve been in a bad mood”  
“So I see… Perhaps you’re more effective _without_ your little partner. I know when he’s not around you’re certainly more… effective, for me.”  
“Sorry, Angelique”  
Napoleon heard Angelique sigh on the other end of the line.  
“Who do you want?”  
“Agent B-179 if you’d be so good.”  
“Hmph, he’ll contact _you._ What’s your proof of payment?”  
Napoleon glanced down at the file. He’d have to make up something on the fly. Napoleon was no good with higher-level mathematics or science, but a formula caught his eye. Maybe if he just changed one number it would be good enough to pass. Surely, they would have no immediate way of checking…  
His eyes followed the line on the diagram as he read out the relatively complex formula to Angelique. He changed a 4 to a 6 and a 7 to a 5. He had to assume there was not much T.H.R.U.S.H. could do with one formula anyway.   
“You’ll be hearing from us, Mr. Solo.” Angelique said, in the manner of a secretary.   
“I’ll look forward to it.”  
“Oh, and – Mr. Solo?”  
“Yes, Ms. Angelique?”  
“Lose this number.”  
The phone clicked off.   
  
  
Napoleon held it away from his ear and took a deep breath. He hung up the phone and ran his hands through his dark hair. He liked Angelique, despite himself. Despite herself – as a devoted T.H.R.U.S.H. agent there was little they had in common, but…  Napoleon took a deep breath.   
  
  
He turned back to the file on the table. Now, number 2: Fake the documents. Napoleon grimaced at the thought, this is exactly what Illya would be doing if he were here. If all   
went well, T.H.R.U.S.H. would not even get a chance to look at the documents, but Napoleon had to be ready for anything. At the very least, it would certainly give him enough to do until T.H.R.U.S.H. called him back.   
  
  
He poured himself another drink. 


	7. Compared to what?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I fear this may be it, Napoleon, he thought, composing a note in his mind. 
> 
> Illya thinks.  
> Napoleon's phone rings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I enjoy writing very back and forth dialogue?? I hope you enjoy reading it. Also I felt like we needed a little more Illya in our lives.

Illya finished his meal, a decent one for T.H.R.U.S.H., compared to some other captivating (pun-intended) experiences he’d had with them throughout his career. He was leaning against the wall of his small grey room, staring into space, lost in thought. Despite the edible food, Illya had a high metabolism and, as anyone who’d spent a meal with him would have doubtless witnessed, enjoyed eating a great amount at every sitting. Thus, he’d lost quite a bit of weight in the month since he’d been captured. His borrowed clothes hung about his wiry frame loosely, and his back was cold against the stone wall. Even his hair had grown longer, and hung about his eyes, lanky and yellow. T.H.R.U.S.H. had not seen reason to cut it - and had not had the decency to provide him with a razor with which to kill them himself. Illya didn’t mind, as it gave him somewhere to hide. He imagined they could see everything he did in his little room, but he took small pleasure in hiding his eyes behind his blond curtain.  
  
  
Currently there was not much for T.H.R.U.S.H. to see, as Illya stood perfectly still. There was just the small rise and fall of his chest, underneath his folded arms. But inside his head, Illya Kuryakin was calculating.  
_I fear this may be it, Napoleon._ He thought. Composing a note in his mind.  
Illya had been finally told something of value a few hours before. A man had walked in, waking Illya up from a restless sleep. Illya’s sleeps were usually restless. Unless they followed a session with the people upstairs, and Illya couldn’t really claim credit for those, as they were usually drug-fuelled and left his head ringing and his mouth dry when he woke up. Illya hated having dreams, for they were a source of weakness when captured, and - as he usually did not remember them afterwards, he didn’t know what he may or may not be giving away. Occasionally he woke up with a feeling of dread, or fear, or convinced that Napoleon had been captured or killed or U.N.C.L.E. destroyed or his old grandmother in the Ukraine murdered and his--but these evaporated when he remembered where he was. At least dreams gave him a sense of purpose, a certain thrill, _something_ to escape the ceaseless boredom he felt in this small grey room with no light or noise or time or conversation. He’d retreated so far into himself just to have someone to talk to he didn’t know if he’d ever come back out again.  
Illya had remained on the cot, feigning unconsciousness, but the man did not seem to buy it.  
“Hello Mr. Kuryakin. How have you been enjoying your stay?”  
No answer.  
A smile came into the man’s voice.  
“Well I’m afraid your little stay here at _Chez T.H.R.U.S.H._ may be coming to an end.”  
The Man spoke so casually, so smoothly, like he’d been able to go outside sometime in this month. Like he'd had a proper meal, like he’d been able to laugh at a joke.  
“You see, you’ve got no one.”  
This was not a new line of dialogue.  
“You’ve got absolutely no one. No country, no party, no family, and _certainly_ no friends.”  
_Except for the ones in my head._ Illya joked.  
“You seem to be no good to us dead or alive Mr. Kuryakin.”  
A strange note of truth had crept into the man’s voice.  Illya pricked up his ear ( _ha)._  
“I’m sure you wondered why we’ve kept you around this past month”  
_Ah, so it has been a month._  
“I assure you it was not for your charming personality.” Said with a grimace “You see, the reason we, T.H.R.U.S.H., so _generously_ nursed you back to health, tried our very best to save your fingers…”  
my _fingers…_  
“Was to offer you up as a… _gift,_ to U.N.C.L.E.”  
_Ah. That was it._  
“But you see, they don’t want you.”  
  
  
Illya had heard very similar lines throughout his time here, but this time… it seemed, too personal. The man seemed, impossibly, sincere. Illya couldn’t believe what the man said and yet at the same time, with his eyes closed and his breathing soft and his mind thrumming along with the man’s words, he _did_ believe it.  
  
  
“Spoke to Mr. Waverly personally. The great Mr. Waverly! Keeper of the peace, organizer of men, friend to animals, you know, the works. Talked to him on the phone like an old friend. Told him we had you here, safe and sound – much to our personal expense, mind you. Wanted to give you back, couldn’t do a _thing_ with you! And do you know what he said?”  
_Yes?_  
“Nope.”  
_No._  
“You’ve got no one, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
_Of course._  
“And _we_ certainly don’t want an agent—” Here he snickered into his hand, trying to hide it – for Illya’s sake “—with only 8 fingers.”  
Illya heard the man’s easy footsteps, good quality shoes, click towards the door. Then a creak and a slam and Illya was alone again.  
  
  
Usually he talked to Napoleon.  
_I fear this may be it, Napoleon._  
As he leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, his hair hanging limply in front of his eyes.  
_Should I compose my death poem?_  
Illya had only just eaten but he could feel his stomach turn. He’d never gotten used to this sparse diet. Ever since leaving Russia he had decided to always eat as much as possible - to make up for past hunger.    
_I do not know why I believe the man, Napoleon, but it just sounds true. I think they are going to kill me now. I don’t know if they will make it quick. I don’t know if I will make it quick. I think I want to live a little longer, just to see the sky again._  
_It would be nice to see you again, my friend. I think I’ll miss you. I wonder if you will miss me._  
His stomach rumbled again.  
_I think if I leave this place, I want to eat one of your enormous American meals, Napoleon._  
Illya slid sideways towards the ground. He caught himself and clutched at his stomach. A tremendous feeling of dizziness surged through his veins. He could barely keep upright as the room began to swim around him. Suddenly the door opened again, and the man walked back in.  
Illya realized they’d drugged his food.  
“Goodbye Mr. Kuryakin.” The man said.  
“I did not even get to request my last meal” Illya choked out.  
The man smiled.  
The world went black.  

   
  
\-------------  
  
  
  
Napoleon’s phone rang. He knew T.H.R.U.S.H. would be easily able to contact _him_ , even if he hadn’t given himself away by telephoning Angelique. Ever conscious of maintaining his cool, polished demeanor, he waited a few rings before picking up. When a boy wants your attention, you have to play hard to get.  
  
  
“Mr. Solo?”  
“Speaking”  
“I understand you have something for me”  
“In a manner of speaking. You have something of mine.”  
“perhaps.”  
“I want it back.”  
 “Your superior seemed uninterested.”  
“I _am_ interested.”  
“Why?”  
“Let’s say, good old-fashioned friendship.” Napoleon clenched his teeth.  
“You must be a ‘good old-fashioned guy’”  
“U.N.C.L.E. only employs the best.”  
“Why the switch? Why are _you_ contacting me, I must assume _against_ Waverly’s wishes. Going rogue?” said with a laugh.  
“I thought I was a good guy.” Napoleon retorted.  
“How can we trust you? _Solo_ – err, as it were.”  
“I have the files you want.”  
“Why would I trust you? The big man doesn’t want us to have them why would he let you have them.”  
“I stole them from you originally, I know them inside and out.”  
“I’d need proof, of course.”  
Napoleon snorted, he picked up the base of the phone in his other hand and began to meander about the room.  
“You have the formula I passed onto Angelique. That’s clear proof. Test it if you’re not sure. You get the rest when we trade.”  
“hmm.” A smile “fine.”  
Napoleon grinded his teeth together as he leaned his elbows on his counter. The man was clearly very confident and intelligent. He must be a high-up T.H.R.U.S.H. The agent spoke again, with some level of amusement in his voice.  
“How would you like to proceed?”  
“Well, as you have the more… delicate of items, let’s pick somewhere a little closer to you.”  
“Carnation. Ohio. I believe you’ve been in that region before.”  
“Yes, about a month ago.” _So close!_ Napoleon thought in a fury. So close to where they’d been before.  
“I want somewhere public.” Napoleon said. “Center town. The Nice Café.”  
“Aptly named.” The T.H.R.U.S.H. remarked slyly.  
“I’ll come alone, you come alone. I will want to _see_ Illy— _Mr_. Kuryakin before I arrive. I will want to confirm he’s there and alive before _any_ discussions begin.”  
“Done.”  
“I’ll need your radio frequency.”  
“No time for small talk Mr. Solo?”  
“Sure, why don’t we go for a drink when this is all over.”  
“467.6125 MHz”  
“Tomorrow. 12:00pm”  
“High Noon.” He quipped.  
“I’m just a simple American.”  
“I’ll look forward to it Mr. Solo.”  
“Likewise, Mr?”  
“Chambers. Mr. Thomas Chambers.”  
  
  
The line went dead.  



	8. The Tender Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wind was brisk, and tickled Napoleon’s cheek as it blew softly Eastward. Napoleon was stock still, lying on his stomach, his hands tight around a pair of binoculars. He’d been keeping watch for around an hour, and now lifted his head to survey the general landscape below. He was currently stationed on a high, high hill - some might class it a small mountain, and was lying low so as to not be visible from below the ridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter I wrote during orchestration class :P This is so much fun to write... If you enjoy reading this story or are enjoying where it's going feel free to let me know!
> 
> BTW other language translations are: 1. O damn!  
> 2\. What? Yes, yes, I'm good!  
> 3\. A wolf in sheep's pelt  
> 4\. (German) goodbye  
> 5\. (Russian) goodbye

      Napoleon boarded a plane later that day. He spent most of the afternoon attempting to fake the documents, an infuriating task. This was the kind of work Illya could do, and Napoleon cursed his lack of scientific or mathematical knowledge. He thought he had enough to get by, but grimaced looking at his newly, painstakingly drawn diagrams and charts. It would not hold up to testing, and possibly not even intense scrutiny, despite his best efforts. But If all went well, T.H.R.U.S.H. would not get to look at them for long. He tried to repeat that as a mantra of sorts, _if all goes well._  
  
   
      If all goes well… was indeed what he was thinking, unconsciously, like it was a line from some song, and he had it stuck in his head. He was humming it under his breath at the airport, as he kept his eyes casual and his face impassive but continually checked his surroundings. He assumed U.N.C.L.E. would have been alerted as soon as Illya’s file hadn’t found its way to Waverly’s hands. Lucy would be able to point a finger at him, but so far, either U.N.C.L.E. was getting slow, or Waverly was just watching and waiting.  
_Someone_ was watching him, right now. He could sense that. He felt eyes bearing into the back of his overcoat as he waited in line.  It was not long before he found out who.  
Napoleon had his tickets in order and sat down on an uncomfortable chair, connected to a row of others by a winding metal beam. The seats alternated, with every other chair facing the other way. He was subtly observing his surroundings when an elegant shape reclined in the chair beside him, she was facing the other direction, and her face was largely covered by a stiff white hat with a wide brim and a mass of white curls. But Napoleon knew her instantly.  
“Hello Napoleon.” Angelique said slowly, without looking at him.  
“To whom do I owe the pleasure?” He responded, his eyes never far away from a pair of slick men in suits by the door of the airport, he could tell they were armed and suspected U.N.C.L.E.  
“Can’t say. You know how this business is.”  
“Sure.” He murmured, absentmindedly. Angelique felt like a cool breeze wafting towards Napoleon, sophisticated and frosty – but he couldn’t bring himself to be in the mood. In the old days this encounter would have been a pleasant thrill, but Napoleon’s life of late had leaned more towards frustration than arousal.  
“I don’t know that you do” She paused, glancing at him. He glanced at her. “…anymore.”  
Napoleon inclined his head slightly as Angelique continued.  
“Word is you’re _out_.”  
“Rumors.” He shrugged.  
“Hardly rumors, my dear. We have a very… reliable source who tells us that you’ve been let go.”  
“A reliable source?” Napoleon asked, flickering his eyes at Angelique.  
“Of course. As if U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t have one of those on our side.” She said with a sneer.  
“Why this little chat Angelique, I’m in no mood for romance.” Napoleon said, his patience quickly fading. Angelique’s blatant digging was getting on his nerves.  
“Is that what we have?” She said in mock-surprise.  
Napoleon frowned, “I haven’t had much of that in quite a while.”  
“You’ve certainly been different.”  
“Yeah? Well I feel a bit different.”  
“What’s become of that endless stream of charm I love?”  
“love?”  
“Enjoy.”  
“As a _T.H.R.U.S.H._ agent.” He said pointedly.  
“Not so loud, dear, you’ll blow my cover”  
“What do I care. Watch out, or those boys over there will take _you_ away instead of me.” Napoleon said angrily. He stood up abruptly and walked purposefully away. Angelique remained seated, and no one in the airport would have thought either had been aware of the other.  
  
  
      Napoleon’s anger flared up so much more easily than it had done in the past. This just felt like the missions he’d been doing the past month. There was no joy in the thrill of the chase, the danger, the excitement. Now it just felt old and hackneyed. For some reason Angelique was involved, maybe that was his fault. Fine. That didn’t change his plan. T.H.R.U.S.H. knew he was on his own. They knew U.N.C.L.E. was after him, that he was wanted on all sides. Fine. _If all went well_ it wouldn’t matter. If he could get Illya back it wouldn’t matter. _If all went well._  
   
  
  
\----------------  
  
  
  
      The wind was brisk, and tickled Napoleon’s cheek as it blew softly Eastward. Napoleon was stock still, lying on his stomach, his hands tight around a pair of binoculars. He’d been keeping watch for around an hour, and now lifted his head to survey the general landscape below. He was currently stationed on a high, high hill - some might class it a small mountain, and was lying low so as to not be visible from below the ridge.  
It was a chilly time of year, and this was not improved by the altitude. Napoleon had not bothered to dress in a suit, as he normally might when on an U.N.C.L.E. mission, but instead wore thick pants and his black bomber jacket over a dark sweater. His leather gloves kept his fingers warm, and his once shiny boots were scuffed with dirt and grease. A pair of motorcycle goggles hung around his neck.  
  
  
      Spread out below him was the city of Carnation. Few of the buildings were over three stories tall, with the biggest being a department store and a hotel. The streets were dusty and grey. Traffic was light, but Napoleon was confident that there were enough people around so that if anything happened during the meeting, he could cause a significant scene. He chewed his lip as his eyes swept the streets below, looking for any early signs of T.H.R.U.S.H. or danger. He brought the binoculars back up to his eyes. He could see no threats, nor any pedestrians who looked suspect.  
  
  
      At the center of his view was a small quaint restaurant called “The Nice Café”. He’d gone there a little over a month ago, a few days before infiltrating and being captured by T.H.R.U.S.H., a week before Illya had come to rescue him. It had been a solo mission for Napoleon, a simple get in-get out, steal the documents, stealth mission. Illya had been away in Germany on a short-term undercover op and they’d not spoken in a few days. Neither one knew any intimate details of the other’s mission, and frivolously using a communicator could get oneself killed.  
Nonetheless, that day, as Napoleon jauntily strolled the avenues, taking in the picturesque sights of the small-town, flickering his eyes agreeably at any agreeable girl, he heard his pocket begin to chirp. He was careful not to stop in his tracks, just in case T.H.R.U.S.H. had been watching him, but he made his way to an alcove in an alley, and pulled out his communicator, clicking the lid of the silver pen onto the bottom, and pulling up the short antenna.  
He waited for a few seconds, hearing only soft static.  
“Hello?” He finally tried, his eyebrows furrowed.  
“N- …..Na----leon   c-   Mm, alk-- -oo  …-ear me?”  
There was the sound of a tinny voice in the static, distant, cutting in and out. Napoleon couldn’t make out the words, but he would recognize that voice anywhere.  
“Illya?” He pressed, his concern growing. Illya was half way across the world, on a completely different mission, if he was contacting him it must be some sort of emergency.  
He could hear only static and the odd distorted word.  
“Illya I can’t make you out. What’s happening?” He urged.  
“Na-----on?  I’m try---  ….. о –чёрт!  ….equency---right…. There!” Illya’s voice finally broke through the static for the last few words. Napoleon waited, gripping his communicator, listening intently.  
“Napoleon? Can you hear me?” Illya said clearly, the static was still present, but the voice was strong.  
“Illya? What is going on? Are you alright?” Napoleon asked.  
“что? Да, да нормально! Napoleon, where are you?” Illya brushed off his question and pointedly started a completely new line of dialogue.  
“Wha—I’m, uh, I’m in Carnation.” He said, bemused.  
“Grand. My friend, I want you to do me a favour.” Illya said conspiratorially.  
“Illya what is going on? I’m in an alleyway here and…”  
Suddenly Illya’s voiced turned cool and suspicious “Can you speak? Does T.H.R.U.S.H. know you?”  
“Uh… No, I don’t think so. No pressure yet, things aren’t getting started till tomorrow.”  
“Alright.” Illya said.  
“Illya what is this about? Why are you calling?” Napoleon asked, leaning back against the shade of the brick wall and running a hand through his hair.  
Illya’s intense focus seemed to break open and he relaxed, telling Napoleon his situation, straight.  
“Ah, Napoleon, I’ve just delivered some wonderful secrets into the hands of U.N.C.L.E. and Mr. Waverly.” Illya said, a smile creeping back into his voice. “It was almost too easy, my friend. And, oh, I love it when a complex plan comes off perfectly.”  
“I know you do.” Napoleon said, allowing himself to relax as well. It wasn’t often he could talk to a completely satisfied Illya, unusual though the situation might be.  
“Hmm. It makes having to wear ridiculous fake moustaches and ears and noses seem worth it, Napoleon.”  
“Russian General?”  
“They can’t resist.” Illya purred.  
“This is why I don’t get disguise missions. Unlike _you_ I’m known for my charm and good looks.” Napoleon smiled.  
“Волк в ове́чьей шку́ре.”  
“That’s the job.” Napoleon fell so easily into their usual stream of banter that he forgot the point of the call. “Didn’t you have a favour you wanted to ask?”  
“Yes! You’re right. Napoleon. Are you hungry?”  
“Inviting me for dinner? I might be late.” He quipped.  
“Ha, ha. Well, I am. - Hungry, that is. And I feel like celebrating my success. But there is nothing edible to eat in this dull safehouse, and I cannot venture out safely.”  
“I would hope you wouldn’t risk your life for a meal.”  
“I am starving for some good food, so I thought you could celebrate for me. I assumed communication should be safe, since you’re still days out from your plot.”  
“You assume correctly.”  
“Alright, well,” here his voice turned into that of a tour guide “In the center of the quaint little town of Carnation, there is a wonderful diner called ‘The Nice Café’. I want you to go there and eat a large meal. -  For me, Napoleon.”  
“I’ll do my best” he smiled. “Wait, how do you know there’s a café like that in Carnation? Even I’ve never been here before, it’s tiny and remote.”  
“I was one of the ones who gathered the information on the information _you_ are about to steal.” Illya said shrewdly. “It’s a side job as part of information gatherer to find out the best places to eat.” He said.  
Napoleon grinned. “The best partner a guy could ask for. I’ll see what I can do. I have to watch my figure, you know.”  
Illya was distracted, “Get the croque monsieur… Every now and then I hungrily think about it while staring at these grey, dingy walls.”  
“Sounds like that should make you homesick for Russia.”  
“Ha, ha, Napoleon.” Illya sarcastically replied.  
“Well, as much as I love loitering in alleyways, I think I may begin to attract attention if I spend any more time talking to a pen. I wouldn’t want to meet any unsavory characters.”  
“Unsavory characters? In Carnation? I can only think of one man who fits that description.”  
“A true friend.”  
“Auf Wiedersehen, Napoleon.”  
“До свидания.”  
The communicator clicked off. Napoleon stared after it fondly for a moment, before glancing quickly around him, clicking the lid back onto the top of the pen and sliding it into his breast pocket. He emerged from the alley and ascertained that he’d gained no followers. As he strode forward into the light his stomach growled and he put his finely-tuned espionage skills to work to locate and infiltrate the Nicest Café in Carnation.  
  
  
      Napoleon thought back to the meal he’d had. He’d gotten the croque monsieur, and it was every bit as good as Illya said. Napoleon had raised his glass to Illya, far off in Germany, a silent toast with his lemonade - one of the last of the summer, before digging into his food.  Two days later he’d been captured. Seven days after that, he’d heard the familiar sound of a gunfight through the cold, stone walls of his cell, and had seen Illya’s blond hair flying from behind a gasmask. Thinking about their escape Napoleon couldn’t help thinking of the explosion, and the sight of Illya simply… disappearing into thin air still felt like a punch in the gut. Napoleon grit his teeth and reminded himself that Illya _was_ alive and that finally Napoleon could return at least one of the lives he owed him.  
_two lives and a meal._ He corrected himself. …Maybe he could repay that too, he thought fondly, before remembering _again_ that he’d quit U.N.C.L.E. When he and Illya got back to New York -- _if_ He and Illya got back to New York it would not be like old times. What were the chances they could share a drink at their apartments, what were the chances Napoleon would even _have_ an apartment? For what he’d done and was doing now he could be captured by U.N.C.L.E. and tried for treason.  
Thinking of these realities again set Napoleon’s lips into a grim line. His thoughts trailed into even more dangerous avenues. If this went wrong, he was alone. What on Earth were his chances? Not only that but he had seen no proof of Illya’s life. He’d heard not a word, nor seen any pictures that couldn’t have been faked. For all he knew Illya was still dead and buried under a landslide and this was all just a ploy. A trap that he was going to fall right into.  
  
  
      As Napoleon’s mind worked though these tremendous obstacles, he saw a slick black car turn around the corner. It certainly added nothing to the rustic charm of the town, and looking through his binoculars, he could see it had tinted windows and an armoured body. He recognized it as a popular car of choice for T.H.R.U.S.H. It drove down the avenue towards the café, and parked at the end of the block, in a small lot. Napoleon followed it with his binoculars, before sweeping back along the street, careful not to miss anything. His thoughts were now completely focused on the task at hand - he would have many of his answers soon enough. As he watched, a second car came around the corner. As far as he could tell they were making no effort to be incognito, he could clearly recognize the car as T.H.R.U.S.H. based almost solely on the expense.  
This car parked casually along the curb. Napoleon reached for his walkie-talkie, a cheap model he had purchased earlier, and clicked it on. He found the correct T.H.R.U.S.H. frequency and heard a soft static hum.  
“Mr. Chambers?” He said.  
There was a pause, a small burst of static.  
“Ah, Mr. Solo, I presume?”  
“I see you’ve arrived.”  
“Astute. Try as I might, I… cannot see you.”  
“I thought I said to come alone.”  
“Mr. Solo, we’re both professionals here, surely you didn’t really expect me to _walk_ all the way from base camp to your café?”  
“And how far is that exactly?”  
“No such luck.”  
“I’m supposed to believe your chauffer is just a chauffer?”  
“You can believe what you like, you’ll be dealing with him.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“I’m staying in the car. You did say to be alone, and he will be. Besides, ‘coming alone’ contradicts your whole purpose Mr. Solo. If I came alone, I couldn’t have brought your friend with me.”  
Napoleon’s heart thudded in his chest.  
“And where is my friend then?” He said.  
“wherever you’re hiding, I’m sure you saw our inconspicuous compatriots. They preceded me by a few minutes. Watch them.” Mr. Chambers spoke commands calmly and with ease. He was clearly used to being obeyed without question or hesitation. Napoleon found this rubbed him the wrong way - and though he didn’t like taking his eyes off Mr. Chamber’s car, he nonetheless did as asked, turning his binoculars on the larger, black vehicle.  
      His walkie-talkie clicked back into static, probably Chambers was giving another order. Napoleon’s ears registered this, but his eyes remained glued to the car. As he watched he could see, despite the heavily tinted windows, someone moving about inside - two people. A sort of rummaging. After seconds which felt like hours, the door on napoleon’s side clicked open. It opened so slowly, and as Napoleon held his breath, he saw a man get out. They were small and thin, wearing dark pants and a grey shirt with a light casual jacket on overtop. Napoleon set his binoculars on the man’s head and saw a shock of blond hair. It blew about in the wind and the long strands obscured the face, but Napoleon could tell. He could easily see that it was the irritated face of Illya Kuryakin.  
      His eyes were closed, but Napoleon knew he had the sun at his back, and depending on how Illya had been kept during the past month, he might have not seen direct sunlight in a long time. Napoleon tried his best to remain clinical and professional, but suddenly the fury that had fuelled the past weeks of his life vanished. He knew no one could see him, lying above the ridge, but he still made an attempt to stifle the smile that grew on his face. He barely even knew he was doing it.  
It was the same grin that had crept onto his face when he’d parked a truck amidst a flurry of gunfire, outside of a hole in a wall, and caught the eye of a furious Russian… a little over a month ago.  
  
  
      Napoleon’s walkie-talkie burst into static.  
“Satisfied?”  
Napoleon picked up the radio without looking, his eyes still fixed on his binoculars. He schooled his expression back into a smooth, impenetrable mask, in case his smile transferred to his voice.  
“For now.”  
“Shall we do business?”  
“I’m on my way.” Napoleon clicked the radio off and returned his focus to the black vehicle. As soon as he did, a hand reached out and grabbed Illya by the wrist, drawing him clumsily back into the car. Napoleon had only clapped eyes on him for all of thirty seconds, but it had felt like half an hour. Now that his initial elation at seeing Illya alive had passed, Napoleon felt concern growing in his chest. He’d forgotten to look at Illya’s hands, he was supposedly missing fingers. His ear too, had been covered by his hair in the wind. Napoleon chewed his lip. The way he was being manhandled clearly meant that Illya was out of sorts. This meant that something had been done to him, whether it was minor or permanent, Napoleon wouldn’t be able to find out until he got his hands on him. _If_ he got his hands on him.  
Napoleon slid himself away from the lip of the ridge, so he could stand without being seen. He packed his binoculars back into the side bag on his motorcycle, eyeing the coveted U.N.C.L.E. files tucked away neatly inside. He re-fastened his goggles and zipped up his coat against the wind, clicking the walkie-talkie into his belt and throwing his leg over the side of his motorcycle. From his vantage point, he gazed one last time down at the small town of Carnation.  
  
_If all went well._     



	9. Too Close for Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon felt best, when encountering situations of dire straights and unlikely odds, when he had all his defenses up, both mentally and physically. He felt a small smile touch his lips and a surge of warmth as it occurred to him: rescuing Illya seemed just like old times. There’d been countless occasions where he’d rescued Illya from T.H.R.U.S.H. or even more unsavoury characters before, and countless times where Illya had done likewise for him. Why should this encounter be any more difficult?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a bit late! It ended up being a bit longer than my usual fare - but I hope anyone who might read this is enjoying it. 
> 
> Thanks :)
> 
>  
> 
> Btw - I’m Canadian so I pronounce “Godert” like /go - DER/

  
      Napoleon’s black hair flickered in front of his eyes at the edge of his goggles, blown about from the wind as he flew down the side of the hill on his motorcycle. He knew from years of experience and a lifetime of good-looks that it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a sweep of his hand through his hair, leaving him looking professional and suitably daring. Half of espionage was looking the part, and, after finally seeing Illya and confirming his life, Napoleon felt some of his old, smooth confidence returning. It may have simply been that Napoleon finally had a mission with an end result that mattered to him. It may have been a vain attempt to maintain his reputation, to pretend even to Illya, who knew him better than anyone else, that he was as unruffled and as easy-going as ever. It may have also been a precaution. Napoleon felt best, when encountering situations of dire straights and unlikely odds, when he had all his defenses up, both mentally and physically. He felt a small smile touch his lips and a surge of warmth as it occurred to him: rescuing Illya seemed just like old times. There’d been countless occasions where he’d rescued Illya from T.H.R.U.S.H. or even _more_ unsavoury characters before, and countless times where Illya had done likewise for him. Why should this encounter be any more difficult?  
  
  
      Napoleon was conscious of his not-wearing a suit, untypical for him and detrimental to his appearance as a clean-cut “good-guy”. However, as Napoleon knew, T.H.R.U.S.H. knew that he was now an ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent, he thought this more rugged, darker look might give him an added air of menace – it might even make him look “unhinged”.  
Napoleon was not aware that he had _been_ unhinged for nearly a month.   
  
  
      He sped down the last of the hill, coming down on the dark side so that any T.H.R.U.S.H.ies couldn’t spot him. He swerved onto a back street, and followed it around to a safe spot at the back of the café. He parked and got up, pulling off his goggles to toss them into the saddlebag, and pulling out the U.N.C.L.E. files. These he slid into his bomber jacket, zipping it up. From a vantage point at the side of the building he watched Chambers’ car and the entrance to The Nice Café. Almost as soon as he’d reached this position the driver’s door opened, and out walked a large man, dressed in a dark suit – the chauffer. His eyes were shielded from the light by a black driver’s cap, and Napoleon couldn’t quite make out his face. He could see nothing in the car, thanks to the tinted windows. For all he knew Chambers wasn’t even inside. Napoleon watched the man enter into the café, before retreating back to the rear of the building. He made sure his motorcycle was to be undisturbed, and ran a hand through his black hair, sweeping it casually backwards, before pulling open the back door. This heavy door opened into the kitchen, and a small, hot hallway, filled with the sound of sizzling food and clattering plates, took him directly into the restaurant.  
  
  
      The place was relatively full, which was unsurprisingly due to its well-earned reputation as being one of the best (and only) places to find a good breakfast in town. However it was a grey day outside, and Napoleon was still pleased that it was busy enough to provide suitable cover if something should go awry. Immediately he picked out the chauffer sitting alone at a round wooden table towards the side windows. He’d only just sat down, and a waitress was stopped at his table, asking him “how his day had been going so far”. Napoleon only hoped he could predict out it would end. As the man was distracted, Napoleon let himself scan the restaurant, pretending to peruse a menu on the counter. Most of the people in the place were in couples, there was one family of three, one single woman, two single men at the bar. He had to assume T.H.R.U.S.H. had planted someone in the place, but it would be hard to pick out who without someone making a mistake.    
  
  
      No more he could do, Napoleon strode purposely over to the man’s table, and took a seat.  
He turned to the startled waitress, whose surprise turned into pleasure as she took in Napoleon’s handsome face and casual charm.   
“Ah, yes, miss, two coffees please. One with cream and sugar, the other…” Napoleon paused, gesturing helpfully at the other man across the table, who was staring nonplussed back at Napoleon, his brow starting to furrow in anger.  
Finally he glanced at the waitress from beneath his thick eyebrows “Black.”  
“Thank you” Napoleon said as the waitress smiled and moved on.  
  
  
      Napoleon gazed after the waitress with a smile on his face, much to the chauffer’s annoyance. As soon as she was out of earshot he shot his head back to the man.  
Napoleon’s expression was hard. “So?”  
“Where’s the file?”  
“Yeah, it’s nearby. Where’s Mr. Kuryakin?”  
“You’ve seen him.”  
“From a distance, for all I know that’s one of your goons with a yellow mop on his head.” Napoleon leaned closer. “The way T.H.R.U.S.H. runs its operations, I wouldn’t be surprised.”  
The chauffer’s face reddened “What’s that supposed to mean, Solo?”  
“You surprise me! Such loyalty  -- And that’s Mr. Solo, thank you.” He leaned back in his chair.  
“Hmph. Sure it is.” The chauffer said, his face relaxing into a smug grin. He gave the impression that he knew something Napoleon didn’t.  
Napoleon’s mind was working quickly to prepare himself to work with any angle, use any opportunity or advantage. He didn’t care for this careless, arrogant man, but he couldn’t move until he had all the facts correct. He figured his best bet was, as usual, to reveal nothing and use ignorance to his advantage.  
“I maintain my position. I want to see Kuryakin up close and personal before I give anything over to you.” Napoleon said, folding his arms.  
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The chauffer said.  
“I don’t see why not, surely he can just pose as another patron at the café.” Napoleon said. “Even if he must be accompanied by his larger, menacing friend.”  
“I’m afraid Mr. Kuryakin isn’t… in the best of spirits.”  
“Oh?” Napoleon’s concern increased, although he showed nothing on his face.  
“Let’s just say we had already given him over to—   Well, you don’t need the details!” the man waved his hand in a casual circle, smirking at Napoleon. “You just happened to call right in the nick of time.”  
“I seem to have a knack for that.”  
“Yeah…” the chauffer drawled. His eyes squinted at Napoleon, clearly bothered by his composure.  
They sat in silence for a moment, Napoleon made no move to say anything, aiming to throw the T.H.R.U.S.H. agent off his rhythm - get him to make a mistake.  
The waitress bustled back over to their table, the stalemate was broken. The chauffer grumbled and looked up at her, Napoleon’s face clicked over in a split second to one of charm and ease. His eyebrows raised, a captivating smile at the corner of his lips, the waitress blushed cheerily.  
“Here’s your coffees! Anything else I can, er…” She paused as she glanced at the infuriated face of Napoleon’s “friend” - but her smile returned when she looked back to Napoleon.  
“Anything else I can get for you?”  
“I’ll be having the croque monsieur, I know from experience it’s the best meal in town.” He winked.  
“And you? Sir?”  
“I’m not hungry.” The T.H.R.U.S.H. agent grumbled, willing the girl to go away.  
She took their menus, and melted again into the background of the busy café.   
  
  
“So. Solo.”  
“ _Mr._ Solo.”  
“Where’s the file?”  
Napoleon needed more information before he could give it up.  
“This isn’t a safe trade. I need _some kind of reassurance_ I will get my end of the bargain.”  
“The way I see it you’ve got no leverage, _Mr._ Solo. I don’t mind makin’ a scene in this café – pretty sure I could just take it from you.” He smirked.  
He did have more bulk than Napoleon, but Napoleon was fairly certain he could take him in a fight, surely a top agent _EX agent_ of U.N.C.L.E. could do that much.  
Napoleon sighed inwardly. It was a cartoonish-ly bad bluff, but he had the feeling it might work on this dense man. He leaned back, folding his arms.  
“I don’t know if my… _friends_ would like that.”  
The man’s brow furrowed in incredulity “your _friends?”_  
“You think I’ve come into this situation alone? Is this your first day on the job?”  
“You want me to believe you’ve got accomplices? What, hiding on the hillside?”  
“Maybe” Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows.  
“Has the waitress poisoned my coffee?” He grinned at Napoleon.  
Napoleon snorted “you think an U.N.C.L.E. agent would come into a situation like this without backup? Listen, guy, you mayb—”  
“Ha!” The chauffer laughed, cutting off Napoleon. “an U.N.C.L.E. agent?”  
_The fish bites_ Thought Napoleon, _as Illya would say_.  
“We _know_ you’re out, Solo.  
“ _Mr—_ ”  
“Hardly. You’re not a professional anymore. You’re not an U.N.C.L.E. agent, you’re just _some_ _guy_.” He snorted, “Man, how does that feel?”  
Napoleon didn’t say anything.  
“I know you got no backup. So does Mr. Chambers. You’re alone in this and you’re an idiot.” He leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaked. “ _I’m_ not alone in this.”  
_Finally._ Napoleon thought.    
“I’ve got the boys out back with _your_ ex-U.N.C.L.E. friend, Mr. Chambers in the front, and I’ve got Mr. Godert right here inside.” The chauffer gestured to one of the single men sitting at the bar, which happened to run parallel to their table. He had clearly been listening the whole time, as he took this as a cue to turn ‘round and nod at Napoleon. He was a lean man, wearing a well tailored suit.  
Napoleon had felt his disdain for T.H.R.U.S.H. renewed as the chauffer casually and incredibly stupidly revealed all of his assets to Napoleon.  
“Pull up a chair, Godert - Hey that rhymes!” They chauffer chuckled, evidently over-confident and pleased with himself for trapping the great Napoleon Solo. Nonetheless, Mr. Godert slipped out of his high stool, and pulled up an extra chair to the table.  
Between the two men, Napoleon saw the waitress at the far wall. She noticed the new addition to Napoleon’s table and glanced over. Her uneasy eyes met Napoleon’s and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod of warning. He saw her shoulder’s tense, and she quickly finished up with the patrons at her table before hurrying off out of sight, to the kitchen.  
_Time to move_ Napoleon thought.  
“ _Now_.” The chauffer started, Napoleon focused his attention back on the two men. “No backup means no safe place to hide a file like that, so you’ve probably got it on you.”  
_Clever_ Napoleon thought.  
Mr. Godert joined in.  
“From the angular look of your jacket I’d say it’s in there, wouldn’t you, Mr. Frank?” Evidentially the name of the chauffer.  
_Christ_ , Napoleon thought, _these two are like something out of film noir._  
Napoleon put on a frown, audibly sighing in frustration. He slowly reached his hands up and unzipped his jacked part of the way. Both Mr. Frank and Mr. Godert smirked at his reluctant surrender. Napoleon reached his right hand in and drew the file out slowly - at the same time he pulled his pistol out of its holster around his shoulder, keeping it hidden behind the file. He maneuvered the gun out of the two T.H.R.U.S.H. agent’s sight, holding it down under the table, and slid the file across the table.  
The file was thick and had a definite weight to it. The T.H.R.U.S.H. agents eyed it greedily, mentally tallying the number of pages and the wealth of information inside. Napoleon had not bothered to change the cream-colored folder, still stamped with the black letters U.N.C.L.E. – TOP SECRET, which he thought would be more tantalizing for the average T.H.R.U.S.H. goon. Would make it easier to overlook some of the falsified facts inside.  
Mr. Godert reached for the file, pulling it towards himself. Mr. Frank leaned in closer to look. Napoleon tapped his finger on the barrel of his gun in anticipation, counting down the moments.  
Mr. Godert glanced one more time up at Napoleon, whose face was still set in a theatrical pout, before looking down and flipping up the first page of the cream-colored file, still stamped with the black letters U.N.C.L.E. – TOP SECRET.  
The contents of the file exploded in his face.  
In Mr. Frank’s face, too, as he had leaned over greedily to see, a puff of white smoke burst from the first page of the U.N.C.L.E. file and quickly swelled into a large cloud, swallowing up the two men. Mr. Frank and Mr. Godert both stood abruptly, taken aback, knocking over their chairs which clattered to the hardwood floor. Napoleon couldn’t see their faces, but he heard only panicked coughing and wheezing as they tried, and failed, to clear their lungs of the stuff.  
Napoleon reached forward and deftly grabbed the file, slipping it back into his jacket and zipping it up once more. He stood up then, but his chair did not fall over. He took two steps back, and reached into his back pocket, drawing out the cool metal of a silencer. He brought it up to the barrel of his pistol and swiftly screwed it on. Napoleon then easily sidestepped the cloud, drawing his gun up level. Walking briskly past the white smoke and the two men doubled over within he looked out the far window of the café, past the startled patrons of the window-side tables. Without missing a stride, he raised his gun and closed one eye.  
“GET DOWN” he ordered - the few people sitting by the wall scattered, none in his direction.  
With the familiar _“spit”_ of the pistol, the glass in front of Napoleon shattered. He continued walking. He squinted his right eye and cocked his head and squeezed the trigger again. The bullet went out where the window used to be through the still falling glass and traveled across the parking lot steadily downwards where it collided with, punctured, and destroyed the front left tire of the large, slick, black car parked there that had, held captive inside, U.N.C.L.E. Agent Illya Kuryakin.  
Napoleon broke into a run. He leapt through the large window-frame, glass crunching underfoot, and sprinted across the parking lot, much like the speeding bullet of his gun. In seconds he was at the car, and he pulled the back door – locked. He strode up to the driver side and shot through the tinted window twice at close range in the same exact spot, not caring if he hit the driver. The armoured glass cracked in a spiderweb design, and a final blow from the but of Napoleon’s gun, thrust into it, broke it enough for him to get his hand inside. Napoleon cut his fingers and his wrist on the broken glass, but caught the door-lock, pulled it, and threw the door open.  
No driver.  
Napoleon paused, confused. There was no driver, that didn’t make any sense. No one else in the front seat either.  
The doors now unlocked, he returned to the back door and wrenched it open.  
No Illya.  
No one.  
Napoleon stepped back. He’d done all this in a matter of moments, his whole being focused on speed and efficiency, he’d not taken note of his immediate surroundings.  
He was suddenly aware of the sound of an engine breaking into life. It had _not_ been this car he’d felt idling.  
A second, smaller, grey car, anonymous and bland, whirled into life and revealed itself as it pulled out from the other side of the black T.H.R.U.S.H. vehicle. Napoleon felt the air around him swirl and watched in sudden, furious comprehension as he registered the familiar blond head of Illya in the back seat.  
They had switched cars while he had been distracted in the café.  
Napoleon spun on his heels, and once more broke into a run.  
  
  
      He dashed through the parking lot, his gun at his side. He still heard the two men coughing and sputtering in the café, a few others with them. It wouldn’t matter, in a few more minutes they’d be knocked unconscious, and of little use to T.H.R.U.S.H. or anyone else in the current situation. That is – if Napoleon had gotten the dosage right, he was cribbing Illya’s expert knowledge of explosives. Although… Napoleon did not want to hurt the patrons - but this barely crossed his mind as he ran. He came in through the side door and ducked his way into the kitchen pathway again. He saw the waitress huddled with some of the cooks on the floor. They met eyes for a moment, but Napoleon saw only fear and mistrust. He burst through the back door. Behind the café, he jumped onto his motorcycle and shoved his hand into the side bag, stuffing the files inside, and pulling out his goggles, hastily tugging them over his eyes. He kicked it into gear, spinning out on the neglected pavement and pulling out into the road.  
  
  
      As he maneuvered his motorcycle onto the narrow street, he heard more and more shouts emanating from the café. The shattering glass, the explosion, it had caused a ruckus. He heard his walkie-talkie bursting into static from inside his bag. He couldn’t make out any words, but it was still marginally connected to the T.H.R.U.S.H. communicators, and they were clearly having an intense discussion - no doubt Mr. Chambers was issuing orders, as he so liked to do. Napoleon bounced off the curb onto the road. He could see the smaller grey car in the distance, producing a cloud of dust as it sped away from the city. This car was clearly built for speed – but so was Napoleon’s motorcycle. He didn’t need to look behind him as he heard another engine burst into life – Mr. Chambers. He was joining the chase as well. Napoleon felt a small twinge of pleasure at having forced him to get directly involved, but this was overshadowed by his senses of survival and action. It was just another angle from which danger would come - and possibly danger more precise, more efficient. Napoleon leaned forward in his motorcycle and sped up.  
  
  
      On the road now, he could see the grey car, speeding up the hill. Napoleon deftly swerved around cars and other obstacles, going the wrong way on the road. The wind whipped the sides of his face and blood streaked back across his sleeve, spattered from his cut wrist by the momentum.  
He could feel two cars in back of him, one Mr. Chambers’, the other just more T.H.R.U.S.H. mooks - held nearby in case something went wrong. Napoleon saw them in his rear-view mirror, getting closer, on the other side of the street. Luckily, the streets were relatively busy, and Napoleon had an easier time on his motorcycle then they did in their cars. He continued along the wrong side, ignoring the confused and angry honks of other drivers. A break in traffic, the two T.H.R.U.S.H. cars rapidly sped up, gaining on him. Napoleon jumped the curb and went up onto the sidewalk, scattering any onlookers who’d stopped to watch the excitement.  He cut down a narrow alley, impossible to drive through, and burst back into the sunlight on the other side, at a relatively clear one-way street. He could see the path the grey car was taking, and, having familiarised himself with the town on his previous mission here, knew which way he could go to cut it off. Pedestrians held onto their hats in the sudden gust of wind that followed Napoleon’s motorcycle.  
  
  
      The T.H.R.U.S.H. goon car blazed around the corner, and Napoleon saw it speeding down the one-way street towards him. He saw the back window roll down, and a man propped himself up, half way out of the window, aiming a T.H.R.U.S.H. standard issue rifle at him. Napoleon ducked down further on his motorcycle and began to drive in a serpentine manner, swerving dramatically across the road. His driving skills were excellent, but it dramatically reduced his speed, and he could feel the other car gaining. Bullets whizzed past him, sometimes he dodged them easily, sometimes they only just barely missed, whirring past Napoleon’s ears. Napoleon trusted his luck, and reigned in his driving, blazing a trail down the center of the street. He picked up speed, to get as far as possible from the T.H.R.U.S.H. car. A bullet sliced through the left sleeve of his bomber jacket, grazing his arm. He heard a metallic sound as another ricocheted off his motorcycle. Napoleon was two blocks away from the T.H.R.U.S.H. car and was running out of road. He pulled his pistol out and leaned dramatically, skidding his motorcycle to a stop, half turned to the side.  
Napoleon put his foot down to steady himself and breathed in through his nose. He squinted one eye, calmly staring down the on-coming vehicle, ignoring the hail of bullets coming towards him. He grabbed his wrist with his other hand to steady it and squeezed the trigger.  
once, the T.H.R.U.S.H. gunman’s head shot backwards, and momentum pulled him down, till he hung limply out of the window. The rifle clattered to the road and was left in the gutter.  
twice, the front left tire was punctured and rapidly began to deflate, throwing the car into a swerve, sparks flying up from the metal scraping the ground.  
third, forth, two shots cracked and split the front windscreen, revealing the concentrating T.H.R.U.S.H agent driving.  
Napoleon saw the passenger in the front aiming a pistol, he felt a hot, stinging weight in his left shoulder, pulling him back at an angle, and throwing off his shot.  
fifth, the driver took a bullet in the chest, but on the wrong side. As he fell forward the car turned dramatically, bouncing up over the curb and into the corner of an old building.  
  
  
      Napoleon saw the passenger unbuckling to move over to the driver side. He spared his shoulder a passing glance, the blood beginning to show through his black bomber jacket, the damp fabric shining in the sunlight of the day. He put his feet back onto the motorcycle and revved the engine. Maintaining his new direction, Napoleon accelerated towards the narrow set of stairs which stretched up in front of him, to the high road.  
  
  
      After bouncing up the concrete steps, Napoleon felt the ease of smooth asphalt again as he crested the high road, connecting with the hill that the grey car holding Illya had climbed. He could see it, closer now, in the distance as he turned onto the wider, mountain road.  
  
  
      Behind him he heard an engine come to life. He turned to look and recognized Mr. Chambers’ car.  
_Ah, he knows the land too_ …  
Napoleon watched in his rear-view mirror as Mr. Chambers’ car smoothly and quietly picked up speed, easily matching the speed of Napoleon’s motorcycle. No one got out of the window to fire at him, and Napoleon understood his intention well enough. Napoleon was on a small motorcycle, high up, on a now curvaceous, mountain road - Mr. Chambers’ was going to try to run him off.  
  
  
      Sure enough, Napoleon leaned into the first curve of the road, steadily rising. Mr. Chambers, on the inside lane, pulled up next to him.  Napoleon could see through the front windows at this close distance, and could see only one man in the car, driving. _It must be him._ Napoleon thought.  
The first curve they went around together, driving perfectly in sync. Around the corner was a straight stretch of road, empty, except for one large semi-trailer, plodding along slowly, up the hill, black smoke pouring out. Napoleon and Mr. Chambers took the passing lane, Napoleon in front, Chambers close behind. They passed the truck, moving steadily up. Napoleon could not see the little grey car now, it had gone up and over the top of the hill and was now out of sight. Napoleon had to assume it was not safely away, since Mr. Chambers was still gunning for him – although, _then again,_ Napoleon thought, _maybe he just wants to run me off for fun._  
A curve came up and Napoleon leaned drastically into it, trying to pick up speed. His motorcycle came close to the edge, which was safely fenced off and only lead to the gentle sloping side of the mountain. Mr. Chambers came up close behind him and bumped his back tire with his bumper, sending Napoleon suddenly forward a few feet more.  
_We’re not high enough up yet. He wants to be sure of killing me._ Napoleon thought, eyeing the steeper cliffs in the distance.  
  
  
      Another curve, they rode it together. Mr. Chambers, now on the outside, pulled in close to Napoleon. Napoleon looked over and saw his hands delicately turning the wheel, as if absolutely no energy was being exerted. Napoleon was sweating, and could feel his hair, damp, flying about his face.  
Another curve, Napoleon on the outside, he was aware he was being shepherded by Mr. Chambers, as he was now dangerously close to the side of the cliff. He glanced down over the edge. It wasn’t a sheer cliff face, just a steep descent into trees, but Napoleon was sure it would, if not kill him, certainly make him an ex-U.N.C.L.E. agent permanently.  
Another straight stretch. Mr. Chambers’ car drifted across the road, striking Napoleon’s motorcycle. Napoleon held his own, and tried to push back against the car, but his motorcycle was built for speed, not strength. He could hardly win in a battle of might. He felt himself flush against the side of Mr. Chambers’ car, gently being guided towards the edge of the road.  
They climbed the hill, now at the very crest of the mountain. Napoleon gripped the handlebars of his motorcycle, trying to keep upright, trying to press back against the T.H.R.U.S.H. car, trying to maintain his speed and balance. In his rear-view mirror he could see the semi-trailer, it’s black smoke trailing off into the distance. As he looked up, he could see in front of him the small grey car, his prize.  
He looked to the left: Mr. Chambers’ car was now streaked with blood from Napoleon’s wounded shoulder, pressed up against it as he was. Napoleon knew Chambers couldn’t take a shot at him, he too was concentrating on the road, the slightest mistake might send them both flying off the edge.  
They flew across the summit of the mountain and began the descent. Napoleon knew it was now or never for Mr. Chambers. The road below curved in hairpin turns, and the mountain was a sheer cliff on either side. The downward momentum too, would make it hard to change direction once a driver lost control. _If_ a driver lost control. _If_ Napoleon lost control.  
They were pressed together, they took one turn then another, Napoleon was edged further and further towards the rail, a thin metal guard, badly maintained and not build to withstand murderous intent. All his senses were on full alert, he didn’t know the last time he felt so exhilarated, so much adrenaline rushing through his veins. He could barely feel his hands as they gripped the handlebars, white-knuckled. He couldn’t feel his cuts and bruises and gunshot wound, he knew he’d feel them later, if there was a later.  
This was it, coming up. Napoleon felt the sure pressure on his side. The turn was deadly, the shoulder a straight, rocky drop down. The road itself was steep and gravity would do most of the work for Mr. Chambers’, he’d barely have to push.  
Napoleon eased off the gas. He didn’t want to skid, but he hit the breaks hard, and Mr. Chambers’ car grinded past him, sparks flying, as Napoleon almost came to a complete stop. Napoleon rode the skid and the abrupt change in momentum into the rail, the only place for him to go, praying it was strong enough to catch him. It was, and he tumbled into it. The air was knocked from his chest, his right leg was tangled in the metal and felt bruised, or sprained, he’d half to wait to find out.  
Mr. Chambers, not expecting Napoleon’s maneuver, continued straight towards the hair-pin turn, at speed. His horizontal push, no longer tempered by Napoleon’s equivalent force, sent him diagonally towards the edge.  
Napoleon sat up straight, unaware his breath was held, one foot on the rocks under the rail, the other just barely still on the road.  
Mr. Chambers car skidded, swerved like he suddenly hit a patch of black ice, spun out in a frantic turn to face Napoleon, but ultimately, did not go over the edge.  
_Fine then_ Napoleon thought.  
_Plan B._  
  
  
      The Semi-trailer, letting gravity take it down the mountainside, came around the turn, and drove headfirst into Mr. Chambers’ car, sending it tumbling off the side of the mountain, and down to the rocks below.  
  
  
  
  
      Napoleon took in a gasping breath of air, one hand on his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. He felt a million years old, and pain shot through every inch of his body. He tore the goggles off his eyes and let the cool mountain air hit him as he panted, leaning on the handlebars of his motorcycle. He ran his left hand through his hair, forgetting about his bullet wound, and winced, gasping again as a blinding shaft of pain shot up his arm. This time, one sweep of his hand through his sweaty, wind-blown hair, streaked with oil and dirt, did not achieve a look both suitably professional and daring.    
  
The semi trailer had stopped just down the road. Napoleon could see no one in it was really hurt. He was absent-mindedly glad. Napoleon did _not_ want to endanger civilians, but he had seen no other opportunities in that moment to keep himself alive.  
And he wanted to stay alive.  
For his mission was not done yet.  
  
  
      He looked into the distance, and saw the small grey car, puttering along the mountainside. It may not know it, but it was now alone in the fight, with no one but Napoleon coming to help. As Napoleon watched, the little car suddenly swerved to the left, a bizarre movement sending it bumbling back and forth along the empty road. Finally, it came to a brief stop, then it continued again, slowly regaining speed.  
_Illya._    
  
  
      This little car was not hard to catch up to. Napoleon was back in the present, and all of his senses were attuned to his pain in his shoulder and his hands and his fingers and his wrist and his leg. Bruises in his side from the car and the rail, road burns, grease. He was exhausted.  
He finally came up flush with the little car, he could see some sort of commotion inside. Once again, he thought of Illya, fighting back from within. That must be what it was.  
Whoever was driving this car was distracted and was not watching their rear-view mirror. Napoleon drew up beside it, and at this slower tempo felt sure enough to bring up his pistol once more. He shot out the rear-view mirror and saw the flicker of the driver’s silhouette turn to look out the window.  
Napoleon’s motorcycle drew up level with the car and he shot another time into the window – evidently this smaller, escape car was not as heavily armoured, as the first. The driver’s glass shattered, and Napoleon saw the man inside, slumped over the wheel.  
_Not heavily armoured at all._ Napoleon thought.  
“Illya can you hear me!? It’s Napoleon! Are you in there, can you help!?” Napoleon shouted. The wind took most of his voice away, but what made it into the vehicle remained unanswered. By Illya at least.  
There was a man in the passenger seat, Napoleon saw hands grab the wheel. It was not of much use. The two vehicles were on a straight stretch, far down the mountain, and there was plenty of shoulder on which to crash. This car was smaller and unsteady, and Napoleon put his full weight into shoving it over, into the rail. With a crunch, after skidding along for a good few yards, the car came to a stop.  
  
  
      Napoleon leapt off his motorcycle and wrenched open the driver-side door. The driver’s unconscious body tumbled out. Napoleon shoved his gun into the face of the passenger T.H.R.U.S.H. agent. He leaned back, taking his hands off the wheel and raising them up. Napoleon shot him.  
Napoleon could see a hand reaching forward from the back seat.  
It was grasped by another’s.  
The hand reaching forward had only three - _and a half_ fingers.  
_Illya._  
Napoleon turned his full attention to the back seat. In it was another T.H.R.U.S.H. agent. He was clearly not an enforcement agent of any kind, but was wearing a lab coat, and typical T.H.R.U.S.H. doctor _or torturer_ garb.  
Slumped across him was Illya Kuryakin, his head drooping and his lanky, blond hair swinging in front of his closed eyes, one of his hands still stretched forward in some sort of opposition.  
The T.H.R.U.S.H. agent looked sheepishly up at Napoleon from behind his glasses, which flickered in the dim light of the car.  
Napoleon knew _exactly_ what kind of T.H.R.U.S.H. agent this man was. One look at his snivelly, blandly smiling, soft and spineless face showed Napoleon all he needed to know.  
“What have you done to Illya” Napoleon growled. He didn’t think about the unprofessionalism of using Illya’s first name. It wouldn’t matter in a moment anyway. Being out of imminent danger, face to face with one of the worst, one of the most soul-destroying, unfair aspects of the life of an active U.N.C.L.E. agent set Napoleon’s teeth grinding against each other. He was suddenly filled with the most intense kind of anger, which he only felt in moments like this, the kind of anger which had been multiplied a thousand-fold during his month of loneliness and anguish. Quotes flashed back through his memory as he listened to the man talk.  
“He was causing quite a ruckus in the back seat for us…” the man said.  
_“Let’s just say we had already given him over to—   Well, you don’t need the details!” said Mr. Frank._  
“We were going to crash and so…”  
_“I’m afraid Mr. Kuryakin isn’t… in the best of spirits.” Said Mr. Godert._  
_“You just happened to call right in the nick of time.” Said Mr. Chambers_  
“It was just a mild dosage…”  
“ _We’ve learned he lost two fingers and part of his left ear in the blast_ ” _Said Mr. Waverly_  
“You must be Napoleon Solo”  
_“No doubt T.H.R.U.S.H. tortured him for every ounce of information they could get.” Said Mr. Waverly_  
Napoleon felt his chest tighten.  
“ _an U.N.C.L.E. agent is not much use without their fingers.”_  
Napoleon could barely react as he felt the most acute feeling of disgust come over him. He saw Illya’s head begin to bob.  
  _“We are not making the trade.” Waverly had Said._  
Illya began to stir mildly, he moaned quietly as his head nodded up and down. His remaining fingers twitched.  
“What did you do to Mr. Kuryakin.” Napoleon repeated.   
_Wavery stared directly into Napoleon’s eyes. Calm, collected, and satisfied that the outcome he had predicted had come to fruition._  
 _“sir.”_  
“Well you see we didn’t think anyone wanted him” The snivelly man continued, grinning like an idiot at Napoleon Solo.  
_“We’re letting him go.” Waverly said. Final._  
_“I—”_  
“They’d drugged his food, you see, so he didn’t really know what was happening when they brought him up to me..”  
_“I fail to see what is so hard to grasp Mr. Solo” Waverly said, his gaze never faltering_  
Illya was stirring, but not completely. He was still in some sort of chemical induced state, even as his eyelids fluttered open. The T.H.R.U.S.H. torturer continued to blubber.  
_“You’ve been an absolute terror for T.H.R.U.S.H. these past few weeks. No survivors… that’s hardly your usual style Napoleon.”_  
_“Sorry, Angelique, I’ve been in a bad mood”_  
Illya was murmuring nonsensical phrases “I… did not even…. Get to pick, my, last.. meal…” Napoleon raised one eyebrow, still consumed with fury.  
_“Perhaps you’re more effective without your little partner. I know when he’s not around you’re certainly more… effective, for me”_  
“What. Did. You. Do. To. Him.” Napoleon said.  
_“Mr. Waverly, they won’t keep Illya long once you reject the trade – they’ll kill him.” Napoleon had said_  
“ah…. N, na, Na…po..le..on?” Illya murmured, his eyelids drowsy, half asleep.   
_I would have thought you’d be familiar with the idea by this point, Mr. Solo._  
The torturer gave Napoleon a blank look, still holding onto Illya. His voice got smaller and smaller.  
“experiments, experiments, drugs, testing, ah, uh, you know..” he trailed off, squinting at Napoleon’s face. Napoleon raised up his pistol.  
_“No.”_  
_“Mr. Waverly—”_  
“You’re Napoleon Solo.” The man said, a smile creeping back into his breathy voice. “I’ve heard you’re out of a job…. Whatever are you going to do now?”  
Napoleon shot him.  
_“You cannot_ attempt _to rescue Mr. Kuryakin.”_  
  
  
      Illya didn’t notice the man slump over, he didn’t hear the shot, the silencer was still on Napoleon’s gun.  
Napoleon took a moment, staring at Illya, who began to clumsily fumble his hands free of the T.H.R.U.S.H. torturer’s. Finally, Napoleon put his pistol away and reached forward, gently wrapping his arms around Illya, to disentangle him from the seat and from the dead man.  
Illya spoke to Napoleon, dreamlike, unaware, really, of the situation. But still his mind unconsciously functioned like the logical machine it was.  
  
  
“Na…poleon… “He murmured. Napoleon looked down into his pale, gaunt face.  
  
  
  
Illya’s bow furrowed in confusion “…What does he mean?”  
  
  
\-------------------------


	10. The Very Thought of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stood like that for a few moments, which seemed like hours, before something pulled his hand. Unbalanced, Illya stumbled to the left, keeping his eyes shut tightly. Something grabbed him again, and he was pulled into a small space. There was a sudden rush of cold on his side and a loud slamming noise, like an explosion in his ears. He tried to cover them with his hands, but they were being held down, he was being held down.  
> Then it was quiet, he couldn’t hear all the new noises anymore, it was dark and quiet and Illya’s world slipped away…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THey done did it.

Illya’s eyes shut reflexively as the world suddenly turned white. He was shoved forward into nothingness. Behind his eyelids was light but it was too bright, too strong, too much to look at all at once. He kept his eyes closed. His feet scuffed the floor which seemed rough and he felt a cool sensation on his cheek. His clothes didn’t feel right, they felt unnatural, like they didn’t belong to him or fit him correctly. He stood, his shoulders bunched up, hands at his sides. He thought if he moved as little as possible he could avoid touching the fabric. He felt his hair moving around, tickling the side of his eyes like he was underwater. A wave of anxiety came over him that his small protection was lost. His one curtain between _them_ and his eyes was being disturbed. He was vulnerable.   
There were unusual sounds too, lots of them. There were more sounds than Illya had ever heard before, he couldn’t even describe them and could make no sense of them inside his head, which was in a whirl of confusion and panic. It had been in a whirl for a while, since Illya didn’t know when. He was having trouble counting, and he found it quite impossible in this sudden flurry of sensations.   
He stood like that for a few moments - which seemed like hours, before something pulled his hand. Unbalanced, Illya stumbled to the left, keeping his eyes shut tightly. Something grabbed him again, and he was pulled back into a small, dark space. There was a sudden rush of cold on his side and a loud slamming noise, like an explosion in his ears. He tried to cover them with his hands, but they were being held down, he was being held down.   
Then it was quiet, he couldn’t hear all the new noises anymore, it was dark and quiet and Illya’s world slipped away…  


  
  
\---------  
  
  
  
  
A sudden sound of “shhhh” all around, fingers on lips, Illya’s eyes were open now, in the dark, small space. He could see people behind the blond fringe in front of his eyes. He looked at the people through a film of yellow, like King Midas in a world of gold. Illya smiled to himself and copied the gesture, putting his finger to his lips. The men in the small space were moving and there was a click and then Illya saw a split second of bright white flashing in his vision. The darkness seemed to split apart and there was cool air and he recoiled reflexively, bringing his arm up to shield his face. But then his world went black, something was roughly shoved over his head leaving him with no light at all. He felt a soft cloth over his nose and mouth and vivid memories from some usually controlled corner of his mind, memories of water and drowning and being strapped down and water pouring over his face blindly burst into his head. He was filled with a panic and fought roughly to free himself, but his arms were caught, and his feet were caught, and he couldn’t do anything with only three fingers three fingers three fingers three…

  
  
  
\---------  
  
  
  
  
Illya awoke in a moving vehicle. He could fill it humming all around him. His hands were tied in front of him. Illya felt for the knot automatically and felt a twinge of contempt for the sloppiness of the technique as his fingers began to instinctively untie the basic knot. As the car drove and he fiddled with the rope he recognized the darkness around him as being the result of a black cloth bag over his head. This was nothing unusual, he’d been transported like this many times before. That was part of the lifestyle. The lifestyle of being a… yes. Illya could untie this knot. But his breath came more heavily than it had a moment before. His fingers were slower. He felt a heat rising to his face. Was he running out of air in this bag? Was it a bag? Illya’s breath came more rapidly as he felt fatigue setting into his limbs. What if he was blind? He suddenly thought. There had been an explosion. Had there? Yes, there had - it had blown off his hand. His hand? He looked down at his hands, but he couldn’t see anything. But in his confusion he forgot how to untie the knot. He was overcome with a sudden rush of pain. Suddenly he could barely move for it. It was in every joint and every muscle and it felt like it was running through his veins. He jerked forward in his seat, trying to escape it, his breath panting. He felt someone beside him shift in their position. Blindly he swiped at them, his hands still tied together. It sent a jolt of pain up his arms, and he twitched with the feeling. But Illya was determined and tried again. This time his hands caught a soft body and hit it with all the strength he could muster. The success of this had him try again, this time to the front, where surely a driver must be. His hands pulled hair and he was planning on not letting go but the car swerved, and he was thrown back. He pretended unconsciousness, fiddling with the knot. He felt a throbbing pain in his ribs and his head. His eyes were closed, and he tried to steady his breathing, but it was so, so hard. His head was in a fog. What mission was he on? Was he playing a cover? Was he working with Napoleon? The muscle-memory in his fingers worked quietly through the rope. In time he was ready to try again. He thought the man in the back must not be a very good agent -If he _was_ an agent. Illya had gotten used to the pain now, the throbbing was just a headache telling him to move, get up. He lunged forward and snatched the bag off his head. He shook his head and tried to focus his eyes but they were blurred and he could only see the world spinning around him. Clumsily he swiped at the man in the back seat, and the driver swerved again in the confusion. Illya struck out at them too but there was a third man, someone he’d not counted before. Illya cursed himself.   
He was distracted, there was a rumbling in his ears, a sound getting louder and louder, cutting through the dull hum of the engine of the car he was in. In his distraction, the pain welled up again inside him and he brought his hands up to his forehead, balled tightly into fists. The man in the backseat pulled one away from his head and Illya felt a prick of pain, and something sliding into the skin of his arm. He opened his eyes and looked at the man and then felt a numbness wash over his arm. It travelled up his limb into his heart and his head and his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell over forward, caught by the man in the backseat with the white coat.   
  
  
  
  
\---------  
  
  
  
  
They world had stopped vibrating but Illya’s head was humming and he couldn’t make out anything.  
He heard muffled talking somewhere, somewhere...   
_Oh, it sounds like my old friend Napoleon,_ Illya thought to himself. He thought to lift his head, but nothing was working, and his limbs felt so heeeeavy…..  
He was filled with a sadness that he didn’t understand, and he tried to explain it in his head “I… did not even…. Get to pick, my, last.. meal…” he mulled over this sentence, not able to understand it. Why was it in his head?  
The sound of talking and the feeling of cold air and new and interesting smells were coming to him and he wanted to call out to this shape in his dreams. “ah…. N, na, Na…po..le..on?” _  
_ “You’re Napoleon Solo.” A man said, his voice floating somewhere nearby. _Ah, yes, yes, I was right…_ Illya thought, he pricked up his ears.   
“I’ve heard you’re out of a job…. Whatever are you going to do now?”  
Illya didn’t know what this meant, he didn’t usually have dreams like this. Dreams where he was blind. He tried to get up, he wanted to get up and walk around and go outside, he remembered. Out from under the Earth… Where was he that he wanted to do that? But although he could imagine himself standing up and stepping outside, his body wouldn’t cooperate with him, he remained lying down.   
Finally, Illya felt soft hands reaching around him and helping him up. _да да наполеон…_ Illya thought. But those words that had floated by echoed in his head, _whatever are you gong to do now?_ What did they mean? Illya asked the invisible figure helping him up but he got no response and his mind faded back into nonsensical dreams and blackness. __  
Моя голова, грудь и руки такие тяжелые, о Наполеон ...  
  
  
  


\-----------------  


  
 

  
  
Illya cursed himself. He kept his eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. He found it hard to keep his breath steady, and as he grew more awake, he felt a general pain slowly seeping into his consciousness. It felt as if everything on his body hurt. He would almost swear that even his hair was throbbing with pain. He couldn’t remember the previous days events. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. Based on his odd dreams, he once again worried at what he might have given away. Although… this worry was more an automatic response at this point. Illya felt so detached from the outside world it hardly seemed to matter. He had trouble putting into perspective any information he might have and could barely fathom how it would benefit anyone else to have it.   
Even his dreams - this time Napoleon had been in them. They weren’t a welcome distraction anymore, just a thoughtful recollection of some distant past. Illya couldn’t relate to the stories that played out in them. Napoleon was like a mythic figure looming over him, attempting to rescue him.   
Illya felt a sharp feeling at that thought. He hadn’t thought of rescue in quite a long time. The idea of Napoleon rescuing him suddenly seemed so sweet, so unbelievably, surprisingly moving that he grimaced and immediately knew his face had faltered and that anyone watching would know he was awake. He waited a few minutes more, but when he heard no doors creaking open he relented and allowed himself to start another “day”.   
Illya opened his eyes and bright white light filled his vision.   
It was so dazzlingly bright that he shut his eyes almost immediately, flinching at the sudden flash.   
_Have they moved me?_ He thought in a sudden jolt, his head switching over to a problem-solving, logical state, ready to react to anything. He hadn’t really taken in his surroundings up to this point – still half asleep. But now he was completely awake, and he probed his senses.  
He wasn’t on a hard cot, he was on a soft mattress, some sort of bed. This sent warning bells off in his head, the last time he’d had fuzzy memories of a bed was when they were still patching him up from the explosion. He vaguely remembered them drugging his food - had they taken him to be tortured again? He felt through his limbs and remaining fingers and toes, everything seemed to be accounted for - if newly painful and stiff. _Something_ had happened to him that he didn’t remember, he knew that much.   
He’d grown accustomed to his stone room, but now even the air smelled different. He smelt chemicals, antiseptic, he was definitely in a hospital again.   
His eyes now prepared for the bright light, he opened them a sliver, waiting for his pupils to adjust completely.   
He hadn’t realized just how dim his usual room had been until he opened his eyes wide to a brightly lit one. He’d grown so used to the dull light and stone that the sight of a fully operational hospital room was jarring to him. He didn’t move, but his eyes scanned his new surroundings. A dull feeling of dread came over him, but he knew it would do him little good. He’d just have to see where this new change took him.   
_Then again…_  
Illya suddenly had a thought. _  
What if I’m_ not _supposed to be awake right now?  
_This thought began to swell up inside him.  
_What if this is a chance?  
_He felt some of his old self returning. If this was a mistake, it was a chance of a lifetime. A hospital room could mean tools, knives, _weapons._  
It could mean _escape.  
_Illya’s eyebrows furrowed, he took one more glance about the room, feeling he was alone, he quickly sat up in bed.   
  
  
And felt a hand rush to his shoulder, to gently ease him back down.   
_  
  
жизнь. Ебать._ _меня.  
_  
  
Illya looked in the other direction, away from the source of the hand, furious at himself for getting his hopes up. He didn’t care who it was, but the fact that their easy hand on his shoulder was enough to push him back down hammered home that he was not strong enough to put up a fight. Not even to sit up all the way. What had happened to him while he’d been unconscious?   
His desperation was so strong in this moment that he barely registered that words were being frantically spoken to him.  
  
  
_“Illya? Illya are you awake? Can you hear me?”_

  
“Illya??” 

  
Illya’s brow furrowed. These were unusual words and he felt compelled to turn his head. 

  
“Illya!” The face of Napoleon Solo confronted him, his hand on Illya’s shoulder, a smile tempered with disbelief lighting up his eyes.

  
Illya’s eyes widened in fear. This was a total shock, he absolutely did not know how to process this information. Instinctively he mistrusted it, and recoiled backwards, away from the outstretched hand.

  
Napoleon’s face fell, and concern and confusion took the place of his smile.  
“lllya?” He spoke softly, not withdrawing his hand, but leaving it hanging in the air. “Illya it’s me, Napoleon.”

  
Illya registered a certain look of exhaustion in Napoleon’s features. He didn’t look surprised at Illya’s reaction, just… tired. 

  
“Illya, can you hear me?” 

  
Illya, bewildered, stared back. Finally, he nodded his head. His blond hair slid back in front of his eyes, obscuring Napoleon’s familiar face. Illya didn’t mind, he didn’t know how to react, how to respond. The sight of Napoleon was too unsettling, he preferred it obscured.

  
“Illya, It’s me, Napoleon. Do you remember me?”  


Illya made no move.   


Napoleon’s eyebrows knitted together in worry. He tried again.  


“Illya. We—I… you… you’re safe” He said.  


No word from Illya.  


Napoleon tried again.  


“You’re safe, this is an U.N.C.L.E. hospital. It’s me, Napoleon Solo, your… partner.” Napoleon stumbled on the last word, realizing the lie as he told it. He was nervous talking to Illya. This wasn’t the first time Illya had sat up and opened his eyes, but Napoleon felt that this was different. He felt that Illya was listening. He thought he knew Illya well enough to know when he was really awake.   


But… Napoleon wasn’t used to seeing Illya – a naturally small and wiry man - _quite_ so thin… _quite_ so pale. He wasn’t used to seeing his bold and unflinching friend shielded behind his hair, hiding behind it. Hiding from him.   


“I found you.” Napoleon said, leaning in, willing Illya to understand.   


Illya stared at Napoleon’s face for a long time. Reluctantly he took his eyes off of him and turned to look about the room. It was pleasant, clean, well organized and stocked. It certainly looked like an U.N.C.L.E. hospital. Finally, Illya’s eyes fell on the window. A window was something he had not seen in quite a while, and the sight of the blue sky, with birds gliding past and clouds and wind and the top of some grey buildings peaking in from below made his breath catch in his throat and he had to swallow.   
He looked back at Napoleon and he looked directly into his eyes and Napoleon held his gaze and Illya couldn’t see how anyone could ever copy Napoleon’s face so well he couldn’t really recognize it.  


Napoleon knew Illya was really seeing him and understanding and such a feeling of relief that Napoleon had rarely felt washed over him when Illya said.   


“Napoleon?”  


“Yeah, Illya.”  


“Napoleon.” He said again, as if trying it out.   


“You’re safe Illya, I found out, I--, we got you out.”  


“Napoleon.” Illya said, still barely able to comprehend his freedom.   


“I’m glad you’re awake.” Napoleon said simply.  


“Napoleon.” Illya murmured as the two stared, wide eyed at each other, each unable to put into words their feelings, each unable to completely let the past go. Each holding onto, for this moment, the other half of themselves.


	11. Stormy Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again Illya found himself staring out the window. It was raining today, and he watched it drip from the frame, trickling slowly down the glass. Outside, it was grey and foggy, with little to see beyond the clouds – aside from the odd, lonely bird that happened to fly by. Entering for a brief moment into the boarder of his one connection with the outside world. Illya did not know why but he knew something was different. There was something that was being kept from him and he meant to find out what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh this chapter is a bit longer than usual! I don't know how that happened...
> 
> The line "All good agents need 10 fingers and 10 toes" actually comes from another fic which I enjoyed and was referencing... https://archiveofourown.org/works/8081749
> 
> I was so close to just writing "I DIED THAT DAY" for Napoleon, ala the Princess Bride at one point...
> 
> Enjoy!

      Once again Illya found himself staring out the window. It was raining today, and he watched it drip from the frame, trickling slowly down the glass. Outside, it was grey and foggy, with little to see beyond the clouds – aside from the odd, lonely bird that happened to fly by. Entering for a brief moment into the boarder of his one connection with the outside world.   
Illya had found his eyes often drifted towards the window, when he was alone.  
Sometimes even when visitors were here his eyes would flicker towards it, as if just making sure it was still there. He was still astounded by the world, finally, after being shut up for so long with half of his senses dulled. Not knowing what time it was, what day, how much time he’d spent unconscious or drugged, always hungry, always tired.   
  
  
      He had assumed that no help was coming. It had been too long. Some vital clue must have been obscured, some hint as to his direction lost.  
_Or perhaps they just didn’t care._   
Illya’s eyebrow twitched at the thought.   
“foolish.” he said to himself, quietly, aloud. Trying to put a stop to such ridiculous thoughts.   
But the longer he found himself shut up in this hospital, the more pronounced his thoughts became.   
  
  
      Illya used silence as a measure of protection.   
Perhaps he was just a naturally reserved person, but Illya had lived a harsh life, his childhood had not been easy - nothing had been easy. He didn’t think about it.   
Illya did not trust other people - he had learned this from experience. To be forthcoming with inner hopes or desires, to tell people about his life, his history, himself. This was to invite disorder.   
He did not want strangers trying to sympathise with him. Thinking they could give him advice, thinking they could jovially share a grievance with him, share a camaraderie. He had never yearned for companionship and didn’t expect any in return. Feelings and emotions swirled around inside his head….but he had no intentions of sharing them.   
  
  
       When in captivity, this silence was all he had. It did no one any good for an agent to be talkative with the enemy. It certainly did the _agent_ no good, no matter what the enemy might promise.   
When Illya was held captive _with_ someone else it was a different matter. Then he had to be responsible, collaborative, forthcoming…  
But when alone he had nothing to do but wait and make plans in his head. To give nothing away. To make no move until the exact right moment. To ignore, innate, emotional responses and focus on the logic of the situation.   
Illya would retreat in on himself. No one to talk to, no one to trust – and in the case of a long term, hopeless captivity, nothing to do. He would squash his emotions down until they were something even he could barely feel, it was the only way for him to stay alive and sane. It was like a hibernation.   
  
  
      He had been surviving like this for over a month. Prepared to go on doing so for as long as it would take -before he escaped or was killed. He had expected the latter. He had not expected to be rescued.   
And now he was suddenly free, and he could no longer keep himself numb. No matter what he tried, his emotions, content to being shoved down out of sight while they were ineffectual and irrational in captivity, were now springing up into his head whether he wanted them to or not.   
  
  
       He attempted to keep himself detached by catching these emotions and filtering them away, analysing their content, organizing the reasoning behind them, and judging them to be, in his own words “foolish”. But this logical endeavour resulted in little more than agent Illya Kuryakin staring out a window and muttering to himself, getting more and more irritated, and then irritated that he was irritated at all.  
  
_  
      perhaps they just didn’t care…  
_“stop” he spoke again, finally tearing his eyes off the window.   
_Was I really so impossible to find?  
_Thoughts that would have been detrimental to “morale” in captivity were now hard to suppress.   
He’d gotten little details, even now, as to the situation of his disappearance. And, even now, was foggy as to how he’d been rescued.    
_Did they really think I was dead? With no body? No evidence?  
Did they hold a military funeral for one of my fingers?_ He thought bitterly.  
He could barely think about his fingers without his anger flaring up dramatically. Tapping his thumb to his two fingertips on his left hand, still under the bedsheets, Illya was unwilling to admit he was hiding it.   
_Have I not been a valuable agent in this organization?_ The thought made his stomach drop.  
_Will I still be?_  
Tapping his thumb to his two fingertips on his left hand. Rhythmically tapping.   
_What if they found my fingers. Out in the rubble of the explosion.  
_tapping, tapping, _  
What if Waverly knew I would be deficient?  
_Illya’s eyes went back to the window, but he wasn’t looking out. _  
T.H.R.U.S.H. said they’d offered me in trade. They’d said that “no one wanted me”. Злые ублюдки, I can not trust them but what if…  
_tapping, tapping, increasing in tempo _  
“All good agents need ten fingers and ten toes”_ Napoleon had said to him once. Once when Illya was frostbitten and delirious and again being rescued.  
_Боже мой_ …  
  
  
_Napoleon…_  
  
  
      Perhaps he was just a naturally reserved person, but Illya did not trust other people - he had learned this from experience. To be forthcoming with inner hopes or desires, to tell people about his life, his history, himself. This was to invite disorder. He had never yearned for companionship and didn’t expect any in return. This was not just in Russia, but where ever he went. He had traveled much before he joined U.N.C.L.E. but even in America he had felt the same.   
But then he had met Napoleon Solo.   
  
  
  
\---------------  
  
  
  
      Napoleon Solo silently opened the door to Illya’s room. Once again, he found Illya staring out of the hospital window, captivated by the sight of the sky. He had not noticed Napoleon. The room was rather large, with Illya’s bed being a distance from the door, and Napoleon didn’t bother to announce himself. He felt comfortable waiting to be seen.   
  
  
      He also didn’t mind getting a chance to observe Illya. He had hard enough luck getting visiting hours at all, and they always went by too quickly. Watching Illya watch the rain coming down, Napoleon’s thoughts drifted back to the day of the rescue. It had started to rain that day too.   
  
  
      Napoleon had pulled Illya from the small, grey, T.H.R.U.S.H. vehicle. Illya was barely conscious, muttering in his clearly drug-induced state. Napoleon was shocked at how light he’d been to lift and could see his borrowed clothes hung loosely on his frame. Possibly there was no one at T.H.R.U.S.H. as small as Illya, but more than that, Napoleon could see he’d clearly been half-starved. He was gaunt and his face was as white as a sheet - too pale - even for a blond Russian. Illya nodded his head and his long yellow bangs flopped down, obscuring his face, as if, even in his sleep, he maintained his reserve. Napoleon almost smiled - clearly nothing could be gotten out of Illya, even when unconscious.   
   
  
      Napoleon had hopped the rail and taken Illya to the grass of a field beside the road. He laid him out and examined him for injury. He could see that Illya had no broken bones or wounds that immediately needing tending to but lifting back Illya’s shirt Napoleon saw a myriad of smaller cuts and bruises. Some marks made by instruments Napoleon could recognize all too well – other mysterious shapes by tools he could not. Which only deepened his now severe frown. T.H.R.U.S.H. was always looking for new ways to produce _results_ with captive agents. Clearly only a few hours previous, Illya had been getting worked on by, presumedly, the lab-coat attired, pathetic, T.H.R.U.S.H. doctor Napoleon had shot in the car. Napoleon feared, however, that this torture was not done to produce any kind of result, aside from twisted pleasure for the man from T.H.R.U.S.H., and inevitable, if slow, death for Illya.  
_Damn! If only I’d known sooner. If only Waverly hadn’t refused the trade so quickly._ Napoleon cursed.   
  
  
      Illya was lying on the grass, the growing wind blowing his hair back and forth. He’d completely closed his eyes now, and his pained breathing was gradually slowing down.  
“Illya.” Napoleon said firmly, leaning closer to him. “Illya don’t fall asleep.”   
There was no response.   
“Illya you have to stay awake” Napoleon said more urgently, his brow furrowed. They’d been in situations like this before. He had no real idea of what had been done to Illya, but he knew he couldn’t let him completely fall asleep or there was a chance he might not wake up again.   
Napoleon grabbed Illya by the shoulders and shook him gently.   
“Illya it’s Napoleon. Wake Up.”  
Illya winced as Napoleon shook him, as light as his touch had been. Possibly some of the drugs he had been given were wearing off, _helpfully_ allowing Illya only to feel more of the pain.   
He mumbled in a typical, irritated, Illya way, which gave Napoleon some solace, but his eyes were still closed, and he was once again settling back down.  
“Illya you can’t go to sleep right now.”  
Illya’s eyebrows furrowed “mm….but I’m so tired..” His words came out slowly, drawn out.   
“You can sleep once we get out of here. You want to get out of here right?” Napoleon said.   
“Yes… I do…. I want to see the sky again…”  
Napoleon frowned, Illya was talking as if in a dream.  
“Well if you open your eyes, Tovarisch, you could see it.”  
Illya turned his head to the side “Nooo it’s too bright…. Too bright…”  
“Do your eyes hurt Illya?” Napoleon leaned in. He grabbed Illya’s chin with his thumb and forefinger and pulled his head back up so he could stare his face.   
“hmm….” Illya responded, whatever word he’d started fading away into nothingness.   
“Illya.” Napoleon prompted. No response.   
“Illya I have to leave you for a moment, can you watch out over here while I’m away?”   
No response.  
Napoleon took a breath in and then slapped Illya across the face. The sudden shock of it made Illya’s eyes fly open, and he jerked awake, drawing in a sharp breath of cold air.  
“Illya are you with me?” Napoleon demanded.   
It took Illya, disoriented, a moment to find Napoleon’s face, focus his eyes on it, and come up with some sort of response.   
“Что происходит, эй? Какие?“  
“Not exactly what I was looking for I.K.   
“eye kay?” Illya mumbled, his eyes squinting. “Я не понимаю этого по-русски ... Ах! Английский английский...” He said, as if solving a puzzle. He smiled faintly.   
Napoleon enjoyed talking in Russian with Illya - but it was unusual and troubling when Illya slipped into it by accident, as if completely unaware what language he was speaking.   
“Illya can you understand me?” Napoleon was almost shouting.   
“Yes, yes, да” Illya said. He tried to bring his arm up to wave Napoleon away, but the movement caused his whole body to jerk, and he pulled it back against his chest. He closed his eyes and his breath came out in a hiss.  
“Illya I’ll be gone for just one second, can you hold on for me?” Napoleon said.  
“yes.. yes..” Illya repeated, softer.   
Napoleon didn’t know if Illya was really responding to him, but it was all he had. He stood up and ran back to the cars, leaping over the barrier. He rummaged in his motorcycle bag until he found his walkie-talkie, but discovered it smashed - probably from being crushed between two vehicles. Glancing back at Illya lying prone on the grass, Napoleon turned his attention to the car. He pulled open the door and searched the driver, searching for a communication device. Finally, he found one, hidden in the man’s tie-chip. Certainly, it was more subtle than U.N.C.L.E.’s methods.  
  
  
      Napoleon clutched it in his hand and ran back over to Illya. His eyes were closed, but he was holding his arm to his chest, clutched in his hand, and rocking back and forth.   
“Illya…” Napoleon said softly.   
There was no response, but Illya was in too much pain now to really fall asleep. Napoleon kneeled beside him and looked at the communication device in his hand. He fiddled with it until he found a secret pin that could be extended from the side. Turning it, Napoleon understood it to change the frequency, and he spun, one eye on Illya, until he locked on to the one he knew from years of experience was used by U.N.C.L.E.   
  
  
      Napoleon hesitated, staring at the device, listening to the familiar static. He knew he had quit U.N.C.L.E. He knew he might be surrendering himself by calling in like this, after so blatantly going rogue, stealing files, communicating with the enemy, offering to trade top-secret information for personal reasons. His eyes looked out into the distance as he thought of these circumstances, ones he never would have predicted in all his days. But his eyes fell on Illya, and for the first time he noticed his left hand, currently holding onto his arm. Holding onto it as best it could with only two and a half fingers and thumb. The sight of it made Napoleon’s mouth go dry and without meaning to he reached down and pried Illya’s left hand off of his arm, taking it in his.   
  
  
      “Open Channel D” he said.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
      Napoleon was brought back to earth by a voice coming from the other side of the room. He realized he’d been staring at the floor for the past minute and looked up again at Illya.   
“Foolish” Illya had said quietly to himself.   
Napoleon stared in uncertainty. Illya was looking down now, not at anything in particular, but, much like Napoleon, he was lost in his thoughts.   
  
  
      Napoleon knew Illya had a penchant for keeping his thoughts to himself and living in a world inside his head. He remembered before he had been formally introduced to him Illya had seemed a mystery, a small, icy man who suffered no fools and had no friends. But over the years since they’d been partners, Napoleon had watched him open up to the world, and let his emotions out more freely - buoyed by real friends and companionship. Just as Napoleon was sure that he had grown surer of himself, more effective, more mature, just by being around Illya.   
  
  
      But recently Napoleon had been noticing the old Illya returning. Every time he came to see him - since he’d become more lucid, Illya had been dark and quiet and distrustful. Napoleon knew Illya lapsed back into this when captive, as Napoleon did to an extent – it was the only way to stay alive when on your own. But Illya was still acting like he was being held prisoner by the enemy, he was talking to himself in his head, rather than interact with real people around him. During Napoleon’s visits they would trade their usual barbs and banter, and Napoleon knew he was happy to see him, but whenever the conversation paused, whenever he caught Illya off-guard, he would see Illya like he’d looked when they’d first met. Wary, aloof, and tired. Napoleon did not like it.   
  
  
      He'd called channel D and waited with Illya in that field until he could hear the blades of an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter in the distance.  
Napoleon didn’t know if he’d made the right choice, but he didn’t really think he would have done anything differently. He could have made a run for it, before the chopper reached them. But what a life was that, on the lam for no reason, with no plan, no prospects, and no future. He had been tired and worn ragged by the chase, and only then, with his hand on Illya’s, were the magnitude of his own injuries finally becoming clear to him. He’d have to go to a hospital himself, and he might as well go to an U.N.C.L.E. one, where he could check in on Illya once he woke up.  
So he had made up his resolve and waited.    
  
  
      Napoleon himself, once safely taken into custody and aboard the helicopter with Illya, collapsed. He was exhausted and had lost more blood than he was willing to admit to himself. He had been shot in the shoulder, had 2 broken ribs, a sprained ankle from crashing into the barrier and being battered by Mr. Chamber’s car, and a collection of small to moderate cuts on his arms and hands from broken glass. He was a while in hospital himself before he could come and see Illya, despite his protests.   
  
   
      U.N.C.L.E. personnel, doctors and nurses alike looked at Napoleon with confusion. Everyone in U.N.C.L.E. was aware that Napoleon Solo, Agent 1 of Section 1, in a dramatic turn of events - had quit. However, at the same time, he had risked life and limb, at great personal injury, to rescue another top agent presumed dead. Rumors started to circulate, was he a double agent? Was this some elaborate scheme planned by Waverly? Or was he really out?   
Napoleon himself remained aloof and didn’t bother to try to charm any of the female nurses around. He was satisfied that he was able to heal, and that Illya was recovering nearby. He had not been allowed to see Illya or interact in any meaningful way with any U.N.C.L.E. agent. Napoleon had been waiting for word from above. He’d not talked with Waverly over the communicator, merely rushed a message to Diane (manning the communications controls) their location, the urgency of their need for help, and that there was an agent down. He’d not heard from Waverly since, and had assumed he was recuperating at the hospital on borrowed time.  
  
  
      Finally, on the day Napoleon was discharged, he received a private message.   
  
\--  
  
Dear Mr. Solo,  
  
Despite your flagrant disregard for the laws which U.N.C.L.E. upholds, and your criminal dealings with T.H.R.U.S.H.; you managed to rescue a top U.N.C.L.E. agent from an otherwise hopeless situation.  It is because of this that U.N.C.L.E. will not press charges, and you may remain living in New York an ex-agent.   
  
You are hereby _forbidden_ from interacting with U.N.C.L.E. in any way other than a regular civilian might.  
  
There is one exception:  
Mr. Kuryakin’s state is perilous. He was tortured both physically and mentally. U.N.C.L.E. doctors feel that your presence – as his one-time partner, may help his condition to improve. Thus, you will be allowed strict visiting hours, however, in order than morale not be damaged, you are NOT to tell him about your status as an ex-agent. The staff working with Mr. Kuryakin have also been instructed to do this.   
  
Regards,  
  
Alexander Waverly.   
  
\--  
  
  
       Napoleon had read this with grim understanding. It was more than he could have hoped for, but he still felt somehow resentful. He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t deny that he did. After all this, he was being treated as if he’d quit on a whim. He still remembered his conversation with Waverly, a date which felt like it had occurred years ago. He remembered the cold way Waverly had talked about him and Illya, how bluntly he’d abandoned him to his fate, without a flicker of remorse in his eyes. It still made Napoleon’s blood boil. He was trying to be magnanimous and grateful that he wasn’t going to jail, but again he felt the emotionless detachment of Waverly’s message. He’d been forced to quit, completed an incredible mission on his own, and brought home the best agent at U.N.C.L.E. But he received no recognition from Waverly.  
  
  
      Napoleon’s shoulder still dully throbbed as he made his way over to the desk, to inquire about his visiting time with Illya. The hours were short and far between, but at least it was something. Napoleon had suddenly had the realization that he hadn’t really spoken to Illya in almost two months.   
  
  
\----  
  
  
      Napoleon looked back to Illya, he noted his expression change to one of quiet frustration, like he was working out some complex puzzle in his head. Finally, Napoleon stepped forward from the wall.  
Illya immediately heard the tap of his shoes on the polished floor and looked in his direction.  
  
  
“Hello Illya.” Napoleon said, smiling.   
  
  
      Illya’s face relaxed at the sight of Napoleon, although his eyes betrayed his distracted thoughts.   
“Hello Napoleon.”  
  
  
“How are you feeling?”  
“That I cannot wait to get out of here.”  
“Tough luck.”  
“indeed” Illya grumbled.  
  
  
      Napoleon sauntered over to illya, stopping a few feet away - inadvertently in front of the window.   
  
  
“Ack, Napoleon, you are silhouetted, I cannot see your face.”  
Napoleon frowned.  
“Trouble with your eyes?”  
“Hardly.” Illya lowered his eyebrows “The place I was kept was not well lit” He waved his hand in a circle, gesturing to the room  “All of this is still a bit bright.”  
“ah, I see.” Napoleon moved and grabbed the chair that was sitting lifeless by the wall. He rolled it over to the side of Illya’s bed and sat down.  
“Is this better?” He said, resting his chin on his hand and smiling his most rakish smile at Illya.  
“I take it back. Go back to the window”  
Napoleon leaned back in mock offense.   
“You wound me.”  
Illya smiled and pushed his hair out of his face with one hand, reclining back on the pillows.   
“Aha, Napoleon, Napoleon.” He looked at him “It is nice to see you.”  
“Yeah you too Illya”  
“I feel like I have not seen you in years.”  
“2 months.”  
Napoleon saw a momentary look of disquiet on Illya’s face.  
“I certainly don’t see you very often” He said, looking thoughtfully at Napoleon. “What are you doing with yourself?”  
Ex-agent Napoleon Solo did not like lying to his friend, and this hesitation resulted in bad lies.   
“Not much at the moment. Just paperwork. I too wish you were out of here so I could persuade you to do some of it for me” He shrugged his recently patched up shoulder as proof of his incapacitation, although the movement did send a pain down his arm.  
“I’m sure you would. No Solo missions?” Illya asked, smiling at the pun.  
“I think I’ve had enough of those for quite a while.”  
“Yes, so have I.”  
Illya paused, “your shoulder Napoleon…” he began, then changed “I still haven’t heard the details of my rescue, how did you find me?”   
“T.H.R.U.S.H. reached out to us with an offer of a trade.”  
_Ah, so that much was true_ Illya thought.   
“And?”  
“The information they wanted… It was what I’d stolen the night we were separated. Waverly couldn’t give it over so he had to refuse.”  
Illya’s eyes narrowed.  
“But he sent me in secret, to retrieve you.”  
“I see.”  
Napoleon could see Illya calculating inside his head, he suddenly felt like he was being interrogated.  
“You rescued me on your own?” Illya asked.  
“Yes” Napoleon said.  
“That must have been difficult. Where was I?”  
“Carnation”  
Illya rolled his eyes “So nearby to where they picked me up.”  
“I know. Although that did give me a chance to stop at the Nice Café.” Napoleon said, trying to lighten the mood.  
“Aaah it certainly is. What did you get?”   
Napoleon knew Illya was always happy to talk about food.   
“The croque monsieur.”  
“Was it recommended to you?”  
“By an old friend”  
“hmm… they have good taste.” Illya said.   
“Yes.”  
“I’m pleased to know you were in such a rush to find me.”  
Napoleon leaned back in his chair.   
“Illya you know how it is, it’s endless waiting and planning and waiting some more. I didn’t want to mess it up.”  
“I can’t believe I was so nearby to where you had been kept when I came to rescue you, Napoleon. It might have been the same place exactly.”  
Illya squinted his eyes.   
“Did no one think to _check_?”  
“Illya we thought you were dead.” Napoleon said.   
  
  
_Napoleon Solo,_ Illya thought.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
       At first he had disliked him, finding him arrogant, immature, and altogether too boisterous for Illya to ever enjoy being around. He’d learned of his reputation as a flirt, a ladies-man, and a good agent (in that order), and had not bothered to investigate further.   
But then one day he was called into Waverly’s office. He’d had no long-term partner yet and was irritated at the prospect of being paired carelessly once again.   
He did not expect to see Napoleon Solo walk through the door.   
Even more, he did not expect to later watch him work with a mixture of surprise, admiration and regret. For when on a mission, Illya soon saw, first-hand, Napoleon drop his always-easy-going-American posture, revealing behind it a mind as calm and calculating as Illya’s was. He was intelligent, skilled, charming, and more outwardly confident.   
Illya suddenly saw that _he_ had been arrogant and immature, and he soon found a greater friend in Napoleon Solo than he had ever had in his life before. He regretted the missed time, when he had pretended his loneliness was strength, and lived miserably inside his head.  
As their friendship grew, their partnership only proved more perfectly chosen, and their loyalty to each other, confidence and success increased. Napoleon Solo’s personality had started to infect Ilya’s own. He had become more open, more lighthearted, more easy-going then ever before. He had made friends, more than just Napoleon, and found comfort in friendly conversation. Illya’s emotions rose to the surface more easily than they had all his life previous, all his past when he’d done nothing but analyse them into oblivion and squash them down.  
  
  
      But now, it seemed that some of Illya’s personality had rubbed off on Napoleon. Just at this moment, when Illya’s thoughts and feelings were threatening to overwhelm him - _Napoleon_ was being distant and cautious and was clearly hiding something!  
  
  
      Illya had heard that Napoleon had visited him a few times when he was still unconscious or incoherent. He had had many injuries, was malnourished, and feverish - finally all of the drugs coming home to roost. _That_ he could not judge or question. But since then, every visit with Napoleon had been a mystery. He was evasive with details, distracted when normally he would be completely open and enthusiastic. Illya knew he did not have the complete picture of his rescue, and little of what was said to him by hospital staff or other agents made sense. Even April and Mark had talked only of lighthearted things. He had watched them when they exited - they had passed Napoleon in the doorway, but their greetings were awkward and tense. Illya did not know why but he knew something was different. There was something that was being kept from him and he meant to find out what.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
“U.N.C.L.E. thought I was dead?” He said  
“Yes.” Napoleon said.   
“You thought I was dead?”  
“Yes, Illya” Napoleon looked down, his expression was forlorn - Illya couldn’t doubt that.   
  
  
“Napoleon your facts don’t line up.” He said flatly.   
Napoleon looked up at Illya   
“What do you—”  
“Waverly refused the trade.”  
“I told you--”  
“So you rescued me on your own?”  
Napoleon wasn’t sure where he was going.  
“Tell me, Napoleon, how could you possibly know where I was?”  
“T.H.R.U.S.H. had—”  
“I know T.H.R.U.S.H Napoleon, as do you. If the information was important enough to not even _risk_ a trade for me, they would be intelligent enough to not give themselves away.”  
“Illya I can go get the report if you want—”  
“I don’t want the report Napoleon, I want you to tell me.”  
“I _have_ ”  
“You’re a terrible liar.”  
“I’d be out of the spy business pretty soon if that were true.”  
“You’re a terrible liar to me, Napoleon. You shouldn’t try.”  
“What should I try then”  
“Telling the truth. To me. Your partner.”  
The word “partner” was like a punch in the gut for Napoleon.  
“That’s what I’ve been _doing”_ _  
_ “ _Really_? You rescued me on your own. With no knowledge of where I was or how to find me. Not only that, somehow I was in a _car_? T.H.R.U.S.H. was taking me on a walk just at the moment you decided to come by?”  
“No, Illya--”  
“I’ve been informed that I was tortured very recently when I was brought in, that doesn’t sound like I was going to be going outside any time soon, Napoleon.”  
“They left a—”  
  
  
Illya suddenly had a thought.   
  
  
“Did _you_ make the trade?”  
  
  
Napoleon froze.  
  
  
“What?”  
“You made a deal with T.H.R.U.S.H.” He said again.  
“I—”  
“ _That’s_ how you knew where I was. _That’s_ why I was outside.”  
Napoleon didn’t know how to get around this, it was the only answer that made sense, he couldn’t deny it.  
“Yeah.”  
Illya leaned back on his bed, his eyes drifted out to the window.   
“Waverly refused.”  
“I told you he got me to get you in secret.”  
“Did he refuse because of my fingers.”  
“Illya…”  
“Tell me the truth Napoleon.”  
“No he refused because of the information.”  
“You’re hiding something from me.”  
“I’m not.”  
“You are. Something is different. I’ve seen the way people act around you, like they’re offering you condolences.”  
Napoleon was silent.  
“Is it because of me.”  
Rarely had Napoleon seen Illya like this, he was visibly miserable.   
Illya watched Napoleon’s face and took his silence as agreement.   
“I guess this means you’ll have to find a new partner.”  
“Illya I’ve been working on my own for 2 months, I can’t do it, I’m sick of it, I don’t want a new partner, _you’re_ my partner.”  
Illya scoffed “two months? Because Waverly said I was ‘ _dead’_ ”  
“We didn’t know—”  
“How do you pronounce me dead without any kind of body, Napoleon? Did you just find my fingers on the ground and assume I’d been ‘blown to smithereens’ like one of your cartoons?”  
Illya was getting the kind of vociferously angry he only got at Napoleon.   
“Or did Waverly find them and pronounce me no longer an U.N.C.L.E. agent? I’d been in an explosion; did he assume I was blind and deaf as well? Was it not worth it to—”  
“Illya we thought you were dead! I thought you were dead!” Napoleon said. “I went back after the explosion. I looked everywhere, the mountainside had collapsed, there was just a pile of rubble. You were no where to be found if not under it.”  
“Napoleon…”  
“I’m glad you’re angry Illya! Anything to avoid seeing you the way I do every time I can visit you. You’re always just aimlessly staring out of the window. Staring like you’ve never seen it before. You’re closed off and gloomy – you act like you’re still being held captive Illya! It makes me feel like I’m one of your captors every time I come in.”  
“How can I trust you when you’re lying to me!”  
“I’m not”  
“You _are_ ”  
“You’re right, Illya. I did make a trade with T.H.R.U.S.H., against Waverly’s orders. But this isn’t about you… it’s not about you it’s about _me”  
_“About _you¸_ Napoleon? What have you done?”  
“Nothing! I’ve done nothing.”  
  
  
       Napoleon was standing and Illya was almost doing the same on his bed when a nurse walked in through the door. Both men paused in their argument and turned to her, politely trying to remain civil.  
  
  
      She spoke quietly and timidly “Ah, Mr. Solo, I’m afraid your visiting hours…”  
Napoleon tried to smile warmly at her, as if she hadn’t just heard them yelling at each other when she came in.  
“Thank you very much, miss.”  
  
Illya raised an eyebrow, curious about the specification “ _your_ visiting hours, Napoleon?”  
  
  
      Napoleon put his hands in his pockets and followed the nurse out. Illya was left alone staring after him, suspicious and indignant and wounded all at once, with his mind going in a thousand directions, inspecting the new lines of information he had acquired and seeing where they lead.   



	12. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My condolences – Angelique”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like Angelique.

      Napoleon childishly kicked at pebbles on the sidewalk as he left the hospital. He’d definitely messed it up this time. Illya was not only suspicious, but Napoleon’s attempts to create a cover story had only resulted in Illya assuming the worst about himself and his career. Napoleon hadn’t seen Illya’s hand since he’d been conscious, he was obviously just barely mentally coping with it. Napoleon didn’t know what he’d do if _he_ lost three fingers - he’d certainly lose some of his charm with the civilians. That wasn’t Illya’s speciality, but Napoleon could only imagine how detrimental it was to the precise work Illya had to do, aiming, building bombs, picking locks, the list went on. He couldn’t blame him for being depressed.  
  
  
_Speaking of…._ Napoleon thought, grimly looking at his shoes as he walked. It wasn’t how a secret agent, always alert, always ready for action, would normally walk. But Napoleon wasn’t a ‘secret agent’ anymore, and how very bored he was. For weeks now all he could do was sit in his apartment all day. He was putting off the very real fact that he’d have to find another job. Napoleon had never thought he’d have to find another job; the idea would have been unfathomable only a month ago – yet here he was. It was like Napoleon had said to Waverly in their fateful meeting. He had no real friends outside of U.N.C.L.E., no long-term relationships aside from off and on affairs, none of which filled any kind of emotional void. Of course, he had Illya back, which had been the entire point, but he was not able to see Illya, work with him, share a drink with him, and their meetings had been nothing but lies and arguments.  
  
  
_Lies and arguments.  
_Napoleon wished he could tell him what had happened. He cursed under his breath. He just wished he had someone to talk to.  
  
  
  
\---------------  
  
  
  
      The days continued. After their argument, Napoleon took shorter visits with Illya. He knew his excuses where thin, he knew that Illya was furious at him for his obvious evasions. Napoleon would be frustrated too if he was lying in a hospital bed, deeply aware of the fact that everyone was hiding something from him.  
  
  
_I just wish there was something I could do_. Napoleon thought, frustrated, as he briskly walked down the hospital hallway out of Illya’s room, a week later. His visit with Illya had been brief and cold, there’d been no real conversation. He knew nothing would change until Illya got some answers.  
Napoleon’s thoughts were interrupted as his eyes caught the front desk. On top of the counter was a large bouquet of flowers, white, frilly, rich and well arranged, it was unusual to see such a thing at an U.N.C.L.E. sponsored hospital. Napoleon, ever-curious, espionage in his nature, instinctively wandered over to inspect them.  
  
  
      “Who are the flowers for, miss?” He asked the distracted-looking woman at the front desk. She glanced up at them and responded absent-mindedly as she returned her attention to the ever-growing pile of forms and papers on her desk.  
“Ah the young man in room 204, a Mr. Kury-  Kuryakin.” She said, stumbling over the pronunciation.  
Napoleon furrowed his brow and fingered the flowers, he felt a card and plucked it out of the froth. It was of good stock, and had an elegant script, reading:  
  
  
“My condolences – Angelique”    
  
  
Napoleon stared at the card. He remembered a self-pitying thought that he’d had earlier – “no friends outside of U.N.C.L.E., no ‘long-term-relationships’”.  
_Angelique.._ how strange. _  
_ Napoleon had a feeling these flowers were not meant for a Mr. Kury-  Kuryakin.  
He had a feeling they were meant for him.  
  
  
  
\----------------------  
  
  
  
      A hand picked up on the other end of the line.  
  
  
“I thought I told you to lose this number”  
“Hello Angelique”  
“Napoleon.”  
“Angelique”  
A pause.  
“So.” She said pointedly.  
“Yes.”  
A pause.  
“Illya appreciated the flowers” Napoleon said, glancing across his room to where they stood on the countertop. It hadn’t been hard to bring them home with him, the hospital staff were too busy to notice the loss of one unusual bouquet of flowers.  
“How _is_ the Red Peril?” she said, amused.  
“Very red these days”  
“He needs to relax” Angelique purred.  
“It’s not in his nature”  
“I thought he’d just had a month’s vacation?” She asked innocently.  
Napoleon bit his tongue, his anger flaring up momentarily at Angelique. He knew she was just trying to annoy him, so he forced his face into a smile and continued on.  
“ _’My Condolences’_?” He inquired, quoting her card in the flowers.  
“Well he’ll have to find a new partner won’t he.” She smiled.  
“I had the funny idea that your note may have been meant for me.” He sighed.  
“Growing over-confident Napoleon? No, if it had been meant for you I would have written ‘My Condolences for your career, sympathy for your family - whatever they may be - and of course my regrets that I would not be able to attend the funeral.”  
“Ever-charming as usual, Angelique”  
“You’re one to talk, Napoleon. I don’t believe anyone has gotten so much as a wink out of you ever since you _blew your partner up_. Even now, you really need to—”  
Napoleon set the phone down on the couch and stood up, stretching his legs. He couldn't respond to such cheap shot. He picked up his drink as he stood and took a swig, pulling his eyes from the flowers and trying to be like Illya, staring furiously out of the window. After a minute of brooding his picked the phone back up.  
“Hello” He said softly.  
“I was worried we’d been disconnected.” Angelique said smoothly.  
“No. We hadn’t.” He said, still standing, watching the city out of his window.  
“Oh, Napoleon. So grim.”  
“Perhaps I need a month’s vacation.”  
“Please, don’t make it _too_ easy for us.”  
Napoleon sighed.  Angelique was quiet.  
“What have you been doing with yourself?” She asked.  
“Nothing.”  
“sounds thrilling.” She said, sarcasm slipping into her voice.  
“I’ve nothing _to do_ Angelique.”  
“I can’t imagine” Angelique replied. A stock phrase, but Napoleon thought he heard something genuine creep in, most likely despite Angelique’s better judgement.  Again, the thought came to him.  
_No real friends outside of U.N.C.L.E.  
_  
  
“Angelique, is   T.   H.    R.   U.    S.    H.   listening in?” He spelled the acronym out letter by letter.  
  
  
      Angelique, sitting alone at home, glanced at the communication devices she had around. She was currently on her most personal telephone, which she knew no one at T.H.R.U.S.H. could possibly know existed or could have tapped. It would be easy to let them listen in. She should be, she knew, since she was speaking to a top U.N.C.L.E. agent, EX-status or no. But they were not. She was not even recording the call. Angelique had an excellent memory and felt protected by her secrets. Anything salient she could report back to T.H.R.U.S.H. later, but she liked to know the information herself, without danger or influence, before she decided to share it.   
  
  
“No. They’re not.” She said slowly. Something about Napoleon’s position sparked honesty.  
“I’d like to see you.” He said seriously.  
“It’s been a long time.” She said.  
“Yes.”  
A Pause.  
“Angelique I’m gonna be straight with you.” Napoleon said, putting his drink down and running his hand through his hair. “I’ve got nothing right now, I’d really just like a friend.”  
“A friend?” Angelique said, slightly incredulous.  
“Can I see you outside of all this? I know you don’t trust me, and I certainly don’t trust you. But I, honestly, would just like someone to talk to.”  
Angelique paused. She’d rarely heard Napoleon this open about his emotions. Despite the superficial differences between him and “Mr. Kuryakin” they really were alike. Two very personal, closed-off men who made only few, but strong connections with select others. As an agent herself she could imagine what Napoleon was going through. She had the freedom of not having a partner at all, but she couldn’t say she didn’t get… bored, every now and then.  
The T.H.R.U.S.H. agent inside her was logical - meeting with Napoleon again to “talk” could be interesting, it could be informative, it could be very useful, especially if he was careless with his words.     
Besides, Angelique thought to herself, wasn’t it _she_ who had contacted him? Why not, if not to talk? She chewed her lip. Napoleon may be insufferably “good”, but something about his face did bring out a soft-spot in her. She decided to take him at his word.  
  
  
“Yes.” She said, answering a question she’d asked herself inside her head.  
“Yes?” Napoleon said.  
“I’ll see you Napoleon…. Outside of work.”  
Napoleon was surprised at the surety in Angelique’s voice.  
“Thanks, Angelique.”  
  
  
  
The two agents put down their phones, both of their heads spinning with thoughts and emotions and ideas. They were each often lonely, often bored, often caught up inside their own minds. Despite being on opposite sides - as Napoleon had said, secretly, it was nice to have a friend.  
But most importantly, in the back of each of their minds, Angelique, with something to gain, and Napoleon, with nothing to lose, a single thought loomed.  
Opportunity.

  
\------------------------------  
  
  
  
“Where do we go from here?” Napoleon said, breathlessly, as their lips parted for a moment. His eyes were looking down, towards Angelique’s lips, but he glanced up to see her eyes staring back into his.  
“My place.”  
She kissed Napoleon again, and he shifted his arms across her back, pulling her into an even tighter embrace. He pulled his head away again.  
“Your place?”  
“Yes” she said  
They kissed.  
“I’ve never been” Napoleon said again, when he could manage it, his eyebrows raised.  
“I’m aware.” Angelique said, distracted.  
“We are on opposite sides, you know” Napoleon said, looking at her eyes, which had drifted closed again.  
“Do you not want to come?” She asked.  
Napoleon smiled.  
  
  
\-------  
  
  
      After the telephone call, they had met. Going for a late lunch together. Angelique had picked Napoleon up in her car (at an arranged meeting point) and they had drove to a secluded spot they both knew well, far from prying eyes and ears. Their meeting was full of the usual flirtation and clever remarks, casual and detached, but somehow, something was different. They weren’t meeting together to wind down after an intense mission, or like school children sneaking out of class. Both of them could feel a sense of companionship with the other. An impossible feeling of camaraderie. And an anticipation of what could be said and shared in the coming hours.  
  
  
  
      Napoleon had spoken relatively freely with Angelique. As they reclined at their picnic, away from the world, Napoleon told her of Illya’s “death”, his month of bitterness, his resignation and Illya’s rescue. He avoided any facts or moments which could in any way harm U.N.C.L.E. but spoke more of his personal feelings. He explained his current situation, and low prospects. Angelique listened silently, asking no leading questions or trying to nose out information for T.H.R.U.S.H., which Napoleon appreciated. He felt a thousand times better just being able to talk about his thoughts out loud. He’d been keeping so much in, in the past two months, disowned from U.N.C.L.E. and fighting with his partner, that just being able to tell someone how he honestly felt was therapy enough.    
  
  
      Angelique had sympathised with him, and much to his surprise, reciprocated by talking about her own personal feelings as a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent… doubts, anxieties, frustrations. Their lives seemed remarkably similar and Napoleon was warmed by her candour.  
  
  
      Naturally, this discussion eventually devolved into an activity of a more, _intimate_ nature, of which neither Napoleon nor Angelique was opposed. Their confidential conversation continued, in-between breaths, but it took an interesting turn, with an implication that was all but confirmed when Angelique asked Napoleon over to _her_ flat, rather an irrational thing for an enemy agent to do.  
  
  
      Angelique had been sympathizing with Napoleon quite openly, extrapolating from what he said of his experiences, criticizing U.N.C.L.E. and Mr. Waverly for their unfair treatment of him. Napoleon had hesitantly been going along with her remarks, leaning into his actual, genuine feelings of betrayal and frustration with the way he and Illya had been treated. Feelings that usually just bubbled under the surface. As he listened to her and stared at her cool, beautiful face, now at point-blank range, Napoleon had the strangest inkling that Angelique was attempting to encourage his anger. Her persuasive voice was hypnotic in its speech about all the ways that U.N.C.L.E. had done him wrong and personally wounded him. Now he had no job, no livelihood, no goals, and what did he have to show for all of his years dutifully working for U.N.C.L.E.? Nothing. Nothing but scars.  
_I think she is trying to turn me._ Napoleon thought, briefly pulling away from Angelique in curiosity.  
“What is it?” She said, sounding completely genuine in her tender concern.  
“Nothing” Napoleon said, smiling, pulling her closer.  
  
  
Now this was a new angle. This was what they had both been anticipating since their phone call.  
Opportunity.  
  
  
  
_If Angelique wants to turn me to T.H.R.U.S.H., where’s the harm in that?_ Napoleon thought. _I’ve certainly got reasonable enough motive, hell, I’ve got more than enough motive to switch sides. Everyone at U.N.C.L.E. could believe it… well, everyone except one person.  
_An image of Illya flashed though his mind and he twitched.  
“What was that?” Angelique said.  
Napoleon’s attention returned to Angelique “Sorry, thought of Illya..”  
“Well _don’t_ ”  
He smiled, “sorry.”  
  
  
_If Angelique wants to turn me to T.H.R.U.S.H., I’d no longer be out of a job._ Napoleon thought. His mind going in a thousand directions at once – _I certainly wouldn’t be bored anymore. In fact,_ he thought, _I could still be an U.N.C.L.E. agent, in essence at least... It’s about the only way I can figure that I could still lend a hand.  
_  
  
_Being a double agent could be very useful._ Napoleon thought.  
_I could pass along information, plots, names, discoveries. As far as I know U.N.C.L.E. has no deep cover agents. It could be incredibly valuable if I could pull it off.  
And by the way that Angelique is trying to manipulate me it seems I’m about one, believable, outraged outburst from doing just that… _he thought, turning his attention back to Angelique.  
  
  
“Where do we go from here?”  
“My place”  
  
  
That confirmed it. They had never been to each other’s places of residence before, it was an insane risk for enemy agents to know where the other lived. To be inside, able to remove, or plant anything they wanted. If Angelique was inviting him over it was because she wanted him to - as she had said to him many times in the past: “come over to her side”. Not only that, it meant she was sure enough of him to think she could pull it off.  
  
  
“We are on opposite sides, you know” he said  
“Do you not want to come?”  
Napoleon smiled.  
  
  
_Well alright then_.  
  
  
  
\-----  
  
  
  
      Napoleon committed himself to his role, subtly playing up his complaints of U.N.C.L.E., fawning over Angelique in his usual style. The next hour was a blur of kissing and canoodling in the back of a cab on the way to Angelique’s flat, but Napoleon managed to dock every twist and turn they took to get there. He was whisked inside a tall, upscale apartment building, and followed Angelique through a glossy lobby, the click of her heels echoing around them as she led the way to the elevators. Somehow, in the moment it took her to leave the cab she had redone her face perfectly, and her white-blonde hair looked as if it had never been mussed.  
  
  
      Soon, an embellished door clicked behind them, and Napoleon found himself inside Angelique’s apartment.  
  
  
“I’m surprised I wasn’t blindfolded” he said, as he surveyed his surroundings.  
“Well, I _thought_ I distracted you well enough inside the cab” Angelique said, tossing her coat onto a white couch and looking back over her shoulder at Napoleon.  
“Unless you have some complaints” she said pointedly.  
Napoleon smirked. “Should we send someone back down to kill the cabbie?” He asked, eyebrows raised.  
“Oh Napoleon, don’t be so cliché.” She said. “Besides, I don’t like to be chaperoned, there’s no other T.H.R.U.S.H. agents in this building.” Angelique walked over to her kitchen and began fixing a drink.  
“Oh really?” He said, drawing out the words, accepting the glass held out to him.  
“Yes. They trust me Napoleon.”  
“Do they trust _me_?” He said, leaning his elbows on the countertop.  
“They don’t know about _you_ Napoleon.” Angelique said.  
“Come on Angelique, you expect me to believe that?”  
“You can believe what you like.”  
“You’ve never been sent out to _distract_ me from a mission?” He said, smiling, leaning towards her.  
“Isn’t that why you called?” She said, taking a drink, raising an eyebrow.  
“I can’t imagine T.H.R.U.S.H. would be pleased to hear you’re entertaining a top U.N.C.L.E. agent in your own apartment.” He said, tracing his finger around the rim of his glass.  
“I’m not.”  
Napoleon looked up “Being entertained?”  
“by an _U.N.C.L.E._ agent”  
“Ah.” He said.  
“Unless you’re here on an extra special mission from Waverly.” She said, leaning across the countertop towards Napoleon.  
“No.” Napoleon said, furrowing his brow, his head cocked to the side “I’m not.” He let a certain amount of thoughtful disgust cross his face. He was playing it up, but with the thought of Waverly a flash of real anger darkened his expression, his emotions still got the better of him when he thought about their last conversation before he quit. Angelique, astute, caught the micro-expression and filed it away.  
_Fine,_ Napoleon thought, grimly.   _Fine. It’s got to be believable anger for this to work_.  He realized he’d been lost in his own thoughts for a few moments, meanwhile Angelique was just watching him. He came back to himself and turned his attention to her. She had not bothered to interrupt his train of thought, but was contemplating his obvious frustration rather blithely, like a cat which has almost caught its mouse.  
“You said there’s no T.H.R.U.S.H. agents in this building,” Napoleon said, Angelique raised her eyebrows at his change of topic.  
“how about in your apartment.”  
“You mean listening devices?” she said. “I turned them off when I went out.” Angelique leaned in closer to Napoleon, setting her drink down.  
“I don’t have to turn them back on.”  
  
  
  
\---------  
  
  
  
Later.  
Napoleon was stretched out, supremely comfortable, in Angelique’s bed. He was lying on his back and she was beside him, on her side, examining his profile in the darkness.  
No matter what dark thoughts clouded his expression, whatever tragic histories or deadly experiences he’d had as an agent, Napoleon couldn’t shake the boyish-ness of his looks. This was, of course, part of his charm, part of what made him seem so reliable and kind and trustworthy.  
Angelique, the opposite, with little “girlish-ness” about her, found it hard to resist his handsome features, and she genuinely enjoyed his company.    
Enjoyed it to exactly what _extent_ she had refrained from calculating.  
But in their world of menace and excitement, where no one was trustworthy and one had enemies for co-workers (in the case of T.H.R.U.S.H.), she liked Napoleon’s simplicity. He was so easy to please and took pleasure in so much. Angelique smiled to herself – she could understand why the Russian took such pains to keep him away from her.  
But now… Napoleon seemed to be rather adrift. What a strange series of events had pushed him to this point. _This is the trouble that comes from having a partner_. Angelique thought, raising an eyebrow in the darkness.  
_Napoleon Solo quitting was a fantastic loss for U.N.C.L.E._ she thought.  
_But it could be a great achievement for T.H.R.U.S.H._  
She brought her hands up and rested her head on them, thinking, watching Napoleon, judging the moment to be correct.  
  
  
“Napoleon” She whispered.  
He stirred a moment, then turned his head towards her.  
“Yes?”  
“I’ve enjoyed your company today.”  
Napoleon was not necessarily expecting this from Angelique.  
“Oh?” he said, surprised. He shifted some more until he was facing Angelique better, he could see the outline of her features, light from somewhere glinting in her eyes and around the edge of her white hair.  
“I’ve enjoyed your company too” he said.  
“I’m sorry about your losses recently.” She said bluntly.  
“Thanks.” Napoleon said, interested in where this was going.  
“There is a way we could spend more time together.” She said softly.  
“Won’t thrush mind?” He whispered.  
“Not this way.”  
Napoleon was silent.  
“Aren’t you ready for a change?” She asked.  
“That depends on what you have in mind. Where is this going Angelique?”  
And Angelique said the line she had often said to Napoleon, although this time not in jest.  
“Come over to my side Napoleon.”  
  
  
“Be _my_ partner.”  
  
  
      Napoleon turned his head back up to look at the ceiling. Angelique wrapped her arms around him, and he gathered his thoughts together. It was now or never, an unbelievable opportunity, with incredible risks.  
Join T.H.R.U.S.H., leak information to U.N.C.L.E. don’t get caught, don’t break character, maintain a bitter and violent persona, hang out with Angelique – not too bad, don’t get to see Illya – bad. Hadn’t that been the whole point of all of this? But now, with no other options, this was the only way to still help out, to still be an agent. He would make it work, somehow.  
  
  
      Angelique watched Napoleon’s eyes move back and forth, she could see him thinking. Finally, a slow smile spread across his face and he turned to her, she could see his eyes in the darkness, looking into hers.  
  
  
  
“Alright”.


	13. No, Love, No Nothing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was so eager to be free of the hospital and the last 2 months (that felt like 2 years) of his life that he had somehow convinced himself that naturally Napoleon would be there with a change of clothes, to meet him when he was discharged. As was usual, as was expected, as he had done for Napoleon countless times at countless hospitals after countless missions before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's been such a pause inbetween chapters! I just graduated university so life has been hectic! Here's a short chapter that I just wanted to get out there so people know I'm still alive. More will come soooon.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

      Finally, Illya was free. Really, truly free from captivity.   
  
  
      He’d served his sentence in hospital after running the gamut of wounds, half-delirious, drugged, starved, tortured. This time he’d really had it all. Ilya hated hospitals, despite all of the hardworking and thankless jobs done by the nurses and doctors. Despite the fact that he left them often miraculously _alive_.  
  
  
      But today, despite being a _happy_ occasion - he found himself fit to walk and run and work and breath, simple things he might not have been able to do after his last, trying experience, Illya’s feelings were muddled and pulled in two very different directions.  
  
  
      One the one hand (no pun intended) his greatest fears had been assuaged. Waverly had come to see him in the intervening days. Quite pleasantly - if formally, he had informed him that he was pleased to see how well he’d recovered, and that Illya was of course expected back to work at U.N.C.L.E. as soon as he was able. This meant that Illya still had a job, his current, favorite job, the only kind he could do. He still had it despite his missing fingers. Despite the various conditions that had resulted from his long captivity.   
  
  
      Illya had tried to accept the new array of issues which would stem from his left hand. He’d tried to practice fine, detailed work in the hospital when he was able, partially to alleviate his boredom, partially to convince himself that he was still able to perform all of the difficult tasks he had to do in the field. He’d had mixed success, in terms of the outcomes of said practices, and in terms of convincing himself he could still do it. Logically he knew it would take longer than a few idle days in hospital to re-perfect these skills, but it was still disheartening, and, although he would not necessarily admit it, wounded his pride.    
  
  
      On the other hand, no real solace was gained from Waverly’s visit. Illya still received no more details on his rescue, Waverly offered no information, and he was, as usual, impossible to read. Illya still felt very much in the dark about the whole series of events that lead to him being alive and well in an U.N.C.L.E. hospital. He could barely trust the flimsy storyline Napoleon had given him but had trouble piecing together a new one to take its place.  
  
  
      That was another question, on the other, other hand: Napoleon. Illya was still mystified by him. His visits, at first pleasant, turned to curious affairs riddled with lies and suspicion. Napoleon was uncharacteristically cagey, and Illya found himself uncharacteristically upset. The visits had descended into arguments, until eventually they grew infrequent. Illya had not seen Napoleon now for a few days and had received no word. Usually whenever one of them was in the hospital the other might as well be too, for all the hours they spent there. Not so the case on this particular mission.   
  
  
      However, despite these thoughts and feelings, ones which Illya tormented himself over, _knowing_ he simply did not have enough facts to solve them, Illya was half convinced of happiness today. Today he finally got out of hospital. Today he finally, _finally,_ after two months of indoors, underground cells, hospital rooms, torture chambers, facilities, today he finally got to walk outside and see nature and life and other people. He got to go eat food that was varied and plentiful and delicious. He got to choose his own clothes and rid himself of bandages and medicine. Perhaps finally he could destroy his lingering feelings of loneliness, suspicion, and isolation, left over from his serious expectations of dying in captivity.   
  
  
      He was so eager to be free of the hospital and the last 2 months (that felt like 2 years) of his life that he had somehow convinced himself that naturally Napoleon would be there with a change of clothes, to meet him when he was discharged. As was usual, as was expected, as he had done for Napoleon countless times at countless hospitals after countless missions before.   
  
  
      But when Illya’s doors opened, Napoleon solo did not come in. And Illya sat up farther in bed.   
  
  
“Hullo Illya!” Mark Slate said.   
Illya’s face twisted into a half smile. He was genuinely pleased to see Mark, but taken by surprise.   
“I’m here too!” April said, her voice coming in from the hallway on the other side.   
Illya waited for Napoleon to come through the door, last but not least. But the door swung closed and clicked. He could see no shadows through the door’s small window.  
“Hello April, and Mark.” Illya said, with a smile and a furrowed brow.  
“How are you doing Illya?” April said, coming around to Illya’s side and leaning in close, her big eyes full of cheer. Illya leaned slightly away, as was is natural instinct. Despite his newfound enjoyment of friendship, he was not exactly comfortable up close and personal with many people.    
Mark chuckled and pulled April back by the shoulder. They were both dressed causally, with packages under their arms.   
Illya looked at them fondly “I’m doing fine, I can’t wait to get out of this room.”  
“I’ll bet, I know you can’t stand hospital rooms. I’m the same way.” Mark said sympathetically.   
“Unless there’s a sweet nurse to get you back on your feet” April chided, elbowing her partner playfully in the side. Mark grinned, looking at April with affection.   
Illya sighed, Mark and April were always an easy pair to spend time with, neither of them took themselves too seriously.   
Mark looked at Illya “I know you’ve heard it a million times from us Illya, but it’s great to have you back.”  
“Officially back now!” April said, winking.  
“Yes, I can’t wait to see what’s on the other side of the window I’ve been staring at for weeks.” Illya said wistfully.   
April was still smiling, but her was an anxious look in her eyes. Illya’s isolation was visible for a split second. No one at U.N.C.L.E. would ever want to hear Illya Kuryakin earnestly yearn for the other side of a window.    
“We’ve all really missed you Illya” April said, sitting on the bed.   
“Thanks” Illya said. Tapping his thumb to his two fingers on his left hand.   
Out of sight but not entirely out of mind.   
Tapping, tapping.   
  
  
“Hey Illya, sorry! We’ve lost the plot – brought you some clothes to change into!” Mark said, gently slapping his forehead and removing a bundle from under his arm. He passed it over to Illya.   
“They’re uh, they’re mine. I know we’re not exactly the same size but I’m sure you wouldn’t want to walk about it your scrubs there!” Mark said, grinning.   
Illya took them, he was slightly hesitant.   
“Ah yes, I forget. The only one who can get into my apartment is Napoleon.” Illya murmured.   
He looked down at the clothes, but at the same time he caught a knowing, anxious look shared between Mark and April in his peripheral vision.   
He could see that Napoleon was not coming.   
“We also brought a present! Just got back on a mission and we thought you’d like this.” April said, doing her best to remain bubbly, momentarily distracted by her gift. She presented Illya with an expensive bottle of vodka, presumedly from wherever Dancer and Slate had last been posted.  
“Thank you both, I know I’ll enjoy it.” Illya said, holding April’s gaze.   
“I guess we’ll hold onto it until you get dressed, we’ll see you in the lobby!” Mark said, hustling April out the door.  
  
  
      Illya dressed quickly and quietly, pulling his hospital gown over his head. Was he not allowed to have even a single day off from secrets? Napoleon wasn’t here. Well, they’d been fighting, Napoleon had been lying, _badly,_ Illya had been…stressed. Had they been fighting that badly? What did this mean? It was an absolutely unbelievable situation for Illya if Napoleon had not come out of no other reason than spite. Perhaps he was on a mission. That was the only thing that could make sense, but then…. what had that look been between April and Mark?   
Illya grumbled. He _still_ felt the through-line of missing information. From the moment he’d woken up, some key detail had been omitted from him.   
He finished dressing and opened the door. April and Mark were not there, he was alone, save for one nurse walking busily half way down the hall. Illya pulled his borrowed jacket around himself and proceeded down the hall, walking briskly.   
  
  
      He pushed open the double, swinging doors that lead to the lobby. There were April and Mark, chatting in the sitting area. April stood up when Illya came over.   
“All ready?” Mark said, his hands in his pockets. April linked her arm in his.   
“What are your plans Illya? Now that you’re finally free from hospital?”  
“Well, I will probably just go in to work” Illya said, matter of fact.  
Mark rolled his eyes “Illya, mate, you _know_ you’re still on medical leave right? Why don’t you relax a bit, I’m sure U.N.C.L.E. will make it without you for a few more days” He said, immediately regretting mentioning the time passed.   
“I’m sure you’ll take the afternoon off, Illya.” April said, trying to cover for his slip. “Say, why don’t you come out for drinks with us? We’ve got a day off ourselves after our last mission…”  
“I think I will take the afternoon off, thanks for the offer. I’ll see if I can find Napoleon to come too. You know he’s always game.”   
A look passed between April and Mark, it was impossible for Illya to miss.  
“Speaking of Napoleon…” Illya began, he could see on their faces that April and Mark knew where he was leading.   
“Have you seen him?” He asked, his eyes narrowing.  
  
  
      There was a pause. Mark and April were obviously apprehensive. Illya had felt it ever since they’d come in, they weren’t just here to greet him, they had been tasked with breaking something to him.  
  
  
“Well, uh, Illya, mate…” Mark began, April looked up at him nervously.   
“Illya the thing is…” She began.   
  
  
Illya waited patiently, silently.   
  
  
  
“The thing is about Napoleon is…”  
“He’s…”  
  
  
  
Tapping his thumb to his two fingers on his left hand.  
tapping, tapping.  
  
  
  
“He quit” April said.   
  
  
  
  
This was not what Illya had expected.


	14. I'm Stepping out with a Memory Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya had made the most of his medical leave after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in between chapters, I hope someone still gets a kick out of this! I've been working so much its difficult to find time to write! D:
> 
> Enjoy

      Napoleon lifted his drink to his mouth and took a sip. He was back at his apartment after a few late nights out, sitting casually on his couch, staring forward at nothing. He was thinking, thinking.   
  
  
      It had been a week, and so far, not a word from T.H.R.U.S.H. Barely even a word from Angelique. Had she been joking? Had she run this Napoleon-Joins-THRUSH idea by her superiors and been punished for the _obvious_ inherent risks? Or was T.H.R.U.S.H. waiting, watching what he did, seeing if he ran back to U.N.C.L.E. with the good news? Because so far he’d been doing nothing. He hadn’t contacted anybody, hadn’t done anything but maintain the façade that he was just a poor, out-of-work agent, exiled and jobless. Sadly, it hadn’t been difficult to keep it up. Napoleon had taken to going out drinking in out-of-the-way bars - where he knew he’d be a stranger, just to get out of his apartment. Stayed out drinking - too late. Off-and-on he felt eyes on him, felt like he was being watched, followed. He couldn’t tell if it was T.H.R.U.S.H., U.N.C.L.E., or someone else. For the first time in his life he was almost thankful for the attention.    
He had kicked himself for not seeing Illya when he got out of hospital - he couldn’t risk T.H.R.U.S.H. getting the wrong idea, but his mind, in its boredom, kept turning back to their phone call on the day of his release. As he sipped his drink, he thought…  
  
  
      …The phone rang. Suddenly jangling in his ears, too loud in his dark, silent apartment. He disliked the harsh noise, but, out of habit, waited for a few rings before picking up.  
  
  
“Hello?”  
“Napoleon”  
“Angelique. What an unexpected surprise”  
“Doing anything?”  
“Unless you count drinking alone…”  
“Oh, Napoleon, you _do_ have an appearance to uphold”  
“Do you count _‘man about to be evicted’_ as an appearance? Angelique?”  
“I count _‘my partner’_ as an appearance, Napoleon.”  
Napoleon leaned forward in his seat, one eyebrow raised. A hint of frustration leaked into his carefully applied ‘devil-may-care’ tone of voice.  
“In my experience, partners don’t leave each other out of the loop for weeks.”  
“in _your_ experience a partner _never_ leaves the other alone.” Angelique laughed, “Besides, only it’s only been _a_ week.”    
“I was worried you’d been forced into an ‘early retirement’ from T.H.R.U.S.H. for… adopting stray dogs.”  
“Is that how you see yourself Napoleon?”  
“Like a greyhound.” Napoleon grinned, teasing.  
“More like a puppy.” Angelique said, an edge of sarcasm slipping into her voice.  
“What would that make Illya?”  
Angelique sighed, “Napoleon, you’re new here. Usually when an agent betrays their commander in an emotional fit, quits, and is secretly re-hired by their arch-enemy, they tend to not _bring it up_.”  
“And what do they tend to do?” Napoleon asked, playing along, this new alliance slightly soured with the reminder of Illya.   
“They tend to be dead.”  
“Angelique! Don’t you trust me?”  
“No. And neither does T.H.R.U.S.H.”  
“I’m flattered”  
“But they might soon.” Angelique said slowly.  
“After what?”  
“Are you ready Napoleon?”  
“Raring to go.” He said, outwardly calm, with a smile on his face, hoping it translated over the phone. Inside he was buzzing to know what T.H.R.U.S.H.’s first job for him might be, and desperately trying to come up with a viable way of getting information back to U.N.C.L.E. He knew he was going to be under a microscope for the next few weeks, months… years. His smile bent into a grimace.  
Napoleon almost missed Angelique’s next words, as she spoke in her most meticulously constructed nonchalant voice, “Well good. Because we need you to break into U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, which you would know your way around in of course, and steal the plans for an…” there was a pause, the sound of rustling paper, “an ‘Operation E.L.B.A.”  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
      Illya had made the most of his medical leave after all.   
  
  
      After leaving the hospital, still turning the news over in his mind, he had split off from Mark and April and impulsively phoned Napoleon, but got no response. He didn’t go so far as to knock on Napoleon’s door, unable to resist the draw of a hot shower and a change of his own clothes in his own apartment, which he hadn’t seen for over two months. Not only this, but Illya wanted a chance to actually put-into-words what he thought about the whole situation. He was unsure of how he felt upon _finally_ receiving the long-sought-after missing link of information. This was the point he’d been furiously trying to puzzle out since he woke up in hospital. Suddenly Napoleon’s secrecy and frustration made _sense_. Illya knew he had been depressed for a time after he’d finally gained consciousness, much as he’d never admit it, and he figured Napoleon had been ordered not to tell him that he’d quit, but to visit him anyway. One of Waverley’s ploys to cheer him up. _Рывок_.   
      And Napoleon’s story was not so flimsy anymore. As Illya had suspected, Waverly _hadn’t_ thought it worth it to rescue him, even if they had reasonably believed him dead for weeks.  T.H.R.U.S.H. had offered a trade, Waverly had refused, and Napoleon, in his heroic, American way had taken it upon himself to make the trade and rescue him on his own. He _must_ have known how dangerous, how stupid a plan like that would be. Illya was furious at him for attempting it, but then again grateful he was alive to be furious. He was not too sure that he would not have done the same, if their roles had been reversed.   
  
  
      Illya padded around his apartment, feeling odd and out of place in his own home. When he’d come in his mind had been swirling with so many different thoughts he hadn’t really taken in his surroundings, but now his carefully trained skills of observation pointed out several curious details. When thinking about his apartment while in hospital, he had expected it to be as he had left it. Relatively disorganized after his rush - coming off one, overseas, undercover mission, and immediately heading out again to rescue Napoleon. Then after that, abandoned, unused, for two long months. But now as Illya surveyed his surroundings he was puzzled to find his apartment neat and orderly. Everything was in its proper place, exactly how he liked it. He reprimanded himself for not being observant when entering his apartment, a possibly dangerous place, but this feeling quickly subsided as he developed a more domestic hypothesis. With growing suspicion, he took to the kitchen. He pretended it was to put Mark and April’s vodka away, but really he wanted to look in his fridge. As he had thought, upon swinging the door wide, any leftovers and old food had been removed, taken out before they could go bad. The same was true of his pantry.   
His last investigation was of his houseplants, which, unsurprisingly, were green and quite healthy, having obviously been watered in his absence.   
_Napoleon._  
  
  
      Napoleon, the only other person in the world with a key to his apartment, must have come in while he was gone to maintain his home.   
Even when Illya was considered dead.   
Illya knew Napoleon well. He knew he must have been devastated when Waverly had officially declared him dead. Yet Napoleon had come to his apartment, right from the start, to keep it alive in his absence, knowing that he would, at that point, never return ( _probably_ ). Illya, for all his frost, knew he would have felt the same if Napoleon had been “ _killed_ ”. But Illya would have probably sealed Napoleon off, more cynical when it came to matters of life and death.   
  
  
      Illya sat down on his couch and picked up the phone. It had been daylight when he’d entered, but after his shower, and subsequent, minor investigation, the sun had sunk further into the sky, and dark shadows stretched across the floor. He still wanted the whole story of his rescue, and that he could only get from Napoleon.  
  
  
“Hello”  
“Illya”   
“Napoleon.”  
“Thank you for watering my plants”  
“No problem.”  
_a pause  
_“I’m sorry” Napoleon said quietly. “For not coming to see you out.”  
Illya paused “Mark lent me some clothes” he said with a shrug.   
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”  
“I thought you might be away on a mission.”  
Napoleon paused. “No, I wasn’t.” Illya heard a sigh on the other end of the line, “He’s a good guy, Mark.”  
“Yes.”  
“Illya, I--  
“I know you quit, Napoleon.”  
“Ah”  
“Mark and April told me.”  
“I guess there’s no reason to keep it a secret anymore.”  
“I _guess_.” Illya said, a trace of sarcasm sneaking into his voice.   
“Sorry, Illya, Waverly had me under orders to—”  
“I cannot believe it, Napoleon.” Illya said quickly, his emotions accidentally getting the better of him.   
“It was the only way, Illya.”  
“Yes.” Illya said, reconstituting his thoughts. “About that - I want the full story Napoleon, now that I’m allowed to know it. How did this happen?”  
“You were _dead_ Illya.”  
“I’m aware.” Illya started lightly tapping his left-hand fingers against his thumb, tapping, tapping.   
“You were dead, for a… long time.” Napoleon said. “Then suddenly you were alive again. T.H.R.U.S.H. wanted to trade, Waverly refused. Told me to my face that you weren’t worth it, I couldn’t believe it, he was so bland, so unfeeling, I had to—”  
“Quit.” Illya said, catching Napoleon’s run-on sentence.   
“Yes. It was the only way. It was like Wavery was _trying_ to make me angry. I… I certainly caused a scene.”  
Illya couldn’t imagine.   
Napoleon sighed, “I stole your file, contacted T.H.R.U.S.H., organized a trade, faked the documents - which was _torture_ , by the way, I sorely missed your scientific expertise.”  
“I do not know how T.H.R.U.S.H. could have ever been fooled by your attempt at math.” Illya said sardonically.   
“Well ideally they wouldn’t have had to be, I planted a bomb in the file.”  
“Subtle, Napoleon.”  
Napoleon felt more himself, despite himself, talking to Illya how they used to, frank and honest. “Just smoke, distraction, to give me a chance to get to you. You were there, but drugged, barely conscious. They got you away in a car, I gave chase, we eventually crashed up on the mountainside.”  
“A struggle?” Illya asked, his curiosity overwhelming his impatience.  
“Not much. Just from you, even in your sleep. Only one T.H.R.U.S.H. remained in the car, a… doctor.”  
“I see.” Illya said, fully aware of what that meant.   
“You… you were dying Illya. I had to call in to U.N.C.L.E. to come and get you. I mean, I was pretty banged up myself.”  
“And?”  
“And that’s it, Illya. You woke up back in hospital, couple of days later.”  
“You could have been arrested, Napoleon.”  
“I should have been, by all accounts. I thought I was going to be.”  
“You stole top-secret documents from U.N.C.L.E., made deals with T.H.R.U.S.H…” Illya shook his head “This was incredibly dangerous Napoleon, I’m amazed you’re still alive.”  
“Well, it was worth it.” Napoleon said simply. “It had the desired results”  
“You quit, Napoleon. What are you possibly going to do now?”  
“Well, I’m a free man, at least. Waverly isn’t going to lock me up.”   
... _Yet._ He thought. A dark edge crept into Napoleon’s voice as he thought about Waverly. He still felt about him a complicated mix of paternal respect and unresolved resentment, which he couldn’t yet reconcile.   
“Napoleon?” Illya said, catching the shift.  
“Nothing, Illya.” He said, distractedly.   
Napoleon was thinking. He _had_ to find a way to contact U.N.C.L.E., if his new position at T.H.R.U.S.H. was going to have any beneficial results. He’d prefer to use Illya, of course, but that was so obvious, so predictable. He didn’t know if there was any way of clueing him in on this phone call, it was all too risky, too soon. Surely T.H.R.U.S.H. was watching for him to make any wrong moves. Even taking this phone call might be suspicious. Napoleon wanted to talk to Illya, tell him more, but he didn’t want to ruin his one, precarious chance in T.H.R.U.S.H.   
He had the sudden notion to cut the phone call short.   
“Napoleon, are you listening to me?”  
Napoleon realized Illya had asked him something.   
“Sorry, Illya, I was lost in thought, what did you say?”  
“I said, _what is wrong”  
_“Nothing, Illya.”  
“Наполлия, You are acting unusual. Why did your voice change when you mentioned Waverly?”  
“I don’t think it did, _Tоварищ._ ”  
“I disagree.” Illya said firmly.  “What.” He persisted.   
Napoleon sighed, exasperated “I don’t know Illya. We had a bad argument. I don’t know if I’ve gotten over it.”  
_It's like he’s trying to make me angry…_  
“What do you mean, Napoleon, what did he say?”  
“Nothing, Illya.”  
“Napoleon. what are you going to do now.”  
“Illya, I gotta go.”  
“ _Napoleon._ ”  
  
  
  
There was a click, and the line went dead.    
  
  
  
\-----  
  
  
  
      Illya had made the most of his medical leave after all.   
  
  
  
      He went out for drinks with April and Mark, somewhat despite himself. He had, of course, forgotten to invite Napoleon. Not that he would have come, Illya now knew. He tried to be cheerful with April and Mark, but he was preoccupied, stuck in his head. He could tell that they, too, felt anxious. The evening passed in a blur of small talk and banal chatter. They all knew it was a futile effort to cheer Illya up after the sudden “loss” of his partner. Napoleon’s resignation was still a subject of disbelief and speculation at U.N.C.L.E. HQ. Who knew with whom Illya would be partnered with next, and when it could possibly happen. Illya was not the type to trust anyone easily - he knew he and Napoleon had been an anomaly. Anyone less he wouldn’t be able to stand.  
  
  
      Illya was thinking about Napoleon. Running the scenario over in his head, running their conversation over the phone. Napoleon was a “disgraced”, ex-agent. Allowed to retain his freedom, but currently out of work. Illya knew Napoleon to be like much like himself. He couldn’t believe he would find any other line of work satisfactory. What was he planning on doing now?   
Suddenly, a few more days off didn’t seem like such an offensive notion to Illya. He was determined to find out.  
  
  
      Illya spent the next week in dark alleyways, tinted cabs, and around corners. He was following Napoleon but so far had learned nothing. He had attempted to reason with himself, trying to convince himself that he was just letting his imagination run wild, bored, without any real work to take up his time. But in reality he was only filled with growing concern. His friend was acting unusual. Illya knew Napoleon could wallow, but had never seen him in this dire of a situation before. Illya expertly followed Napoleon, but found he did not have to resort to elaborate disguises or misdirection. He didn’t even have to stay particularly far away. He was frightened to find Napoleon relatively unguarded. Illya watched as he spent hours presumedly doing nothing in his apartment, took long walks and longer drives to distant points of the city, stayed out late, drinking. He was clearly not looking for any kind of work, and in a city like New York, Illya didn’t know how a man, even one as resourceful as Napoleon, could long stay afloat.   
Illya did not like this. He was determined to keep track of his partner, as he considered Napoleon, still.   
  
  
       But Illya did not know what he was looking for. He didn’t know how to predict this new and unappealing Napoleon Solo. Napoleon Solo who kept to the outskirts of town, apparently, awkwardly avoiding anyone he knew. Napoleon Solo taking side streets and long taxi rides to clandestine meeting places were there was no one to meet him. Napoleon Solo sitting by the phone which never rang.   
  
  
Illya was determined to keep track of Napoleon, but he was developing the creeping feeling - that only a life-long spy can feel - that he was not the only one watching.    
  
  
  
On the 8th day, a day before the end of his medical leave, a frustrated Illya went in to work.


End file.
